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Powerfully built, determined of mien, Tycoon St. Davids entered the meeting room early, ignored his place at the Directors' table, aggressively took a seat in the second row of chairs allotted to debenture stockholders. After a time the other directors entered in a body, among them towering Tycoon Kylsant and the Duke of Abercorn. Rapidly they took their places until all the chairs at the Directors' table were full except one—the one ostentatiously left vacant by Viscount St. Davids. As the room quieted to a deadly hush, Baron Kylsant glanced sharply at the vacant chair, frowned, then swept the room with penetrating gaze until his eyes met those of Viscount St. Davids. Tycoon glared at tycoon, brother at brother. The seconds felt like hours. Then Baron Kylsant nodded sharply, pointed imperatively to the empty chair. Neither brother spoke. They are not on speaking terms. But Tycoon Kylsant's victory seemed perfect and complete when Tycoon St. Davids rose abruptly, crossed to the Directors' table, shook hands with His Grace of Abercorn, sank stiffly down into the chair where he belonged.
All present seemed to feel that the best thing next to do was to adjourn the meeting after a perfunctory session which lasted just three minutes.