An old man sat at a desk in the Palace of Versailles. Now and then he stretched forth a suede-gloved hand, touched an electric button, growled through tusk-like whiskers at his slinking abject secretary. To the old man came presidents, premiers, ambassadors. . . . Were they never so mighty, his strange greasy mongoloid visage and baleful luminous eyes kindled respect and an instinctive fear. As he rose from his desk, just prior to the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, Premier Clemenceau resembled so vividly a tiger about to spring that...
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