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THE MONEY GODS

Copyright, 1922, by
THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING MOTION PICTURE RIGHTS, DRAMATIC
RIGHTS, SERIAL RIGHTS, AND INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

Printed in the United States of America

THE JORDAN & MORE PRESS
BOSTON

To
Dr. and Mrs. L. D. Shepard

CONTENTS.

THE MONEY GODS

THE MONEY GODS

CHAPTER I

[Hide And Seek]

Outside the open window, clustering ramblers flecked the wall with crimson, and the ceaseless murmur of the questing bees filled the midsummer air with melody. No other sound disturbed the silence of the study, where Marshall Hamilton, President of the Standard Bank, and his secretary, Hugh Bellingham, sat facing one another at the table in the centre of the room. One by one, the capitalist was disposing of the documents before him, working rapidly, but with the absolute precision acquired by years of experience in the world of high finance. A note here, a numeral there, a word of explanation to the secretary; at length he had completed his task.

"That will be all, Bellingham," he said curtly. "When you've attended to these, you may have the rest of the day to yourself. I'm expecting some friends to play golf."

Bellingham rose, picked up the papers from the table, and with a murmured word of thanks made his way slowly up the broad staircase to his pleasant, airy room at the top of the house. Yet it was evident that he viewed the prospect of a holiday with indifference, for as he seated himself at his desk and gazed forth over Marshall Hamilton's broad acres, the look upon his face was one of discouragement bordering on despair, while his thoughts, gloomily disconsolate, were divided between pity for himself and envy of his employer. How would it feel, he wondered, to change places with the banker, if only for a day, and to become the owner of these well-kept lawns, these groves of birch and pine, the hills and valleys of the links and the sea-blue river winding its leisurely way through the green and fertile meadows on its journey toward the sea. That would indeed be happiness, and more glorious still would be the knowledge that he was one of the "big men" of Wall Street, not only a multi-millionaire, but a director in a score of huge companies and the organizer of mighty enterprises. For an instant, as he sat staring into the sunshine and letting his fancy roam at will, he almost succeeded in realizing his dream, but the next moment, with a sudden start, he came to himself again--Hugh Bellingham, private secretary at a salary of two thousand a year, and with debts so urgent and so impossible of payment that the very thought of them was a perpetual torment, causing him anxious days and sleepless nights, and robbing his life of all pretence of happiness. "Money," he reflected, "I've got to find it. A lot of it, too. Ten thousand dollars, at the least. But Heaven knows where it's coming from, and if I don't have it soon--"

A shrug of his shoulders completed the sentence, and rousing himself with a sigh from his vain imaginings, he turned to the papers before him and was about to begin work in earnest when he heard the patter of footsteps coming swiftly down the hallway toward his room, and at the sound shook his head in humorous despair. "Young Marshall," he said to himself. "No chance for writing now." And scarcely had the words passed his lips when the door flew violently open and Marshall Hamilton, Junior, a handsome boy of seven, burst explosively into the room, and without wasting time on preliminary greetings, hastened to announce the purpose of his visit.

"I say, Hugh," he cried, "I've finished my lunch, and Miss Wilton's still at the table, stuffing like a pig. So let's play hide and seek."

Abruptly, Bellingham swept his papers together, thrust them into the drawer of his desk, and rose acquiescently from his chair. "Very well, sir," he rejoined, "if you say hide and seek, then hide and seek it is. And I suppose you want me to be 'it' so that you can have all the fun and make me do all the work."

But the boy shook his curly head. "No, no, Hugh," he cried, "you're wrong about that. I want to be the hunter; that's the mostest fun. And don't you hide--" he added, raising an admonishing finger, "in any easy baby place like curtains, the way you did last time. I want to have a real 'citing hunt, so you must choose the hardest place you can. Now then, I'll give you a fair start; I'll count three hundred by ones. Ready, Hugh--" and seating himself in the chair which the secretary had just left, he buried his face in his hands and began to count rapidly to himself in a buzzing undertone, while Bellingham, crossing the room on tiptoe, made his way quickly out into the corridor, wondering where he might find a hiding place sufficiently inaccessible to satisfy the aspirations of the hunter.

Near the turn in the hallway, he paused opposite the picture gallery; and, seized by a sudden impulse, entered, closed the door behind him, and for a moment stood motionless, temporarily blinded by the transition from the glare outside to the semi-darkness within. Presently, however, his sight returned to him, and at once, in the vague half-light, he became aware of an uncomfortable feeling that the ancestral Hamiltons upon the walls were peering down at him through the gloom with a hostile and disapproving gaze, as though resenting his presence in the room. But time pressed, and the secretary, still governed by the impulse which had bade him enter, did not stop to analyze this impression, but instead turned hastily from the unfriendly portraits to the four suits of massive armor which flanked the door, bulking grimly upon their pedestals, survivals of those far-off days when the fighting Hamiltons of old had girt their swords about them, and had gone blithely forth to do battle with their foes. Toward the nearest of these Bellingham made his way, and a few moments later stood safely entrenched within his shell of steel, securely hidden from view and smiling to himself as he reflected that he had unquestionably found a place difficult enough to test the ingenuity of his pursuer.

The seconds passed. Evidently the boy was making a thorough search of Bellingham's chamber, for no sound disturbed the quiet of the gallery until all at once, with a swiftness which made Bellingham start, he heard the door suddenly opened and closed again, and immediately afterward became aware that someone was hastily crossing the room. For the moment, with his field of vision restricted by the bars of his helmet, he could not tell who the visitor might be, yet he felt certain that the footsteps could not be those of a child, and the next instant proved that he was right as there appeared before his startled eyes the figure, not of the boy from whom he was hiding, but of Marshall Hamilton himself. A singular time, thought the bewildered secretary, for his employer to be visiting the gallery, and the banker's subsequent actions were more remarkable still, for walking directly up to one of the portraits, a dignified Hamilton of the seventeenth century with ruff at neck and sword at side, the financier stopped short, listened for a moment, and then, casting a quick glance over his shoulder, raised his hand and apparently touched some portion of the picture, whereupon, to Bellingham's amazement, the portrait, frame and all, swung smoothly back; the banker, without hesitation, stepped quickly through the orifice thus made, and an instant later the picture had slipped noiselessly into place again, and all was once more silent in the room.

For the moment, Bellingham experienced nothing but the most intense astonishment, yet almost at once this feeling gave place to one of apprehension and dismay, for it was only too evident that the exit which he had just witnessed was something which he had never been meant to see, and that if his eavesdropping should be discovered, he would be placed in a position of obvious embarrassment, and perhaps of actual danger. And moreover, since young Marshall was a great chum of his father, it seemed equally clear that if the boy should find the secretary's hiding place, news of it would inevitably come to the banker's ears; and accordingly Bellingham, without losing an instant, made haste to emerge from his place of concealment, and stepping quickly to the door of the gallery, opened it just in time to hear the boy's voice crying impatiently, "Make a noise, Hugh; I can't find you. Make a noise, quick."

Like a flash, Bellingham darted across the hall, entered a spare bedroom, and with a sigh of relief dropped behind a table, at the same time calling aloud to guide the hunter. Instantly the boy came storming down the hall, captured his quarry in triumph and began clamoring eagerly for another game. But fortunately for Bellingham, Miss Wilton, having completed the process of "stuffing like a pig," now appeared upon the scene and took command of her charge.

"You're to come driving with me, Marshall," she announced, and turning to the secretary, she added, "And Miss Helen wishes to know, sir, if you would care to play a round of golf with her at five o'clock?"

Bellingham, his mind still in confusion, stood staring at her as if he found it difficult to comprehend her words, but at length he managed to answer, with an effort, "Yes indeed, I'll play with pleasure," and as the boy and his governess disappeared down the staircase, he stood for some moments gazing after them; then with a muttered, "Well, I'll be damned," he turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away down the corridor.

CHAPTER II

[Tangled Threads]

Bellingham's first act, upon regaining his room, was to close the door tightly behind him, as if to prevent the possibility of pursuit. After which, he resumed his seat at his desk, and lighting his pipe, leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, and began to consider at his leisure the strange scene which he had just witnessed in the gallery. A more imaginative man might perhaps have wondered if his eyes had not deceived him, but Bellingham, being of a prosaic and matter-of-fact disposition, did not dream of questioning the evidence of his senses. Yet to solve the riddle of his employer's conduct was a problem which was wholly beyond him, and although various vague conjectures suggested themselves to his mind, he immediately dismissed them as being too improbable to be worthy of consideration. Drink could not be the answer, nor could drugs, for Marshall Hamilton, although a man of more than middle age, was aggressively healthy, with a body of iron and nerves of steel. Intrigue seemed to the secretary to be a more plausible explanation, and yet scarcely a likely one, for the banker's devotion to his invalid wife, and his affection for his daughter and for his little boy were unmistakably genuine and sincere. More probable appeared the supposition that the sliding panel might be the entrance to a vault, where the capitalist could keep important documents and securities. But whatever the secret might be, the secretary felt certain that it was on no slight and trivial errand that the banker had visited the gallery, for in the three years during which he had served his employer he had long ago discovered that Hamilton's huge responsibilities made his outlook upon life essentially a serious one. And while it was quite possible that if someone else, of lesser interests and of greater leisure, had thus vanished through a wall, the incident might have seemed frivolous and amusing; yet where Marshall Hamilton was the man in question, Bellingham felt that the occurrence was of genuine significance. All his efforts to solve the mystery, however, were in vain, and presently realizing that he was accomplishing nothing, and that his correspondence was still unfinished, he came to the sensible conclusion that he was wasting his time, and accordingly set to work upon his task and a couple of hours later had completed it, just as Martin, the butler, knocked at the door and entered to leave the afternoon papers upon the secretary's desk.

Bellingham thanked him, and at the same time advanced a chair and pushed a box of cigars across the desk, for Martin's personality, and his position in the Hamilton household, were both distinctly out of the ordinary. Tall and smooth-shaven, with a keen and penetrating eye, there was something in his appearance suggestive of the ministry; yet this impression was a false and misleading one, for while it was true that the butler had interests and aspirations far beyond his station, yet these interests were the very reverse of ecclesiastical. The stock market, the wheat pit, the cotton exchange--these were the absorbing passions of his life; his ears, sharp as those of a fox, were trained to lose no word that fell, at table, from the lips of his master and his master's friends; and whether it was owing to this, or to natural shrewdness on his part, his ventures had prospered so amazingly that he occupied a position in the eyes of his fellow-servants almost as dignified and exalted as that of his master in Wall Street.

Now, with a respectful inclination of his head, he seated himself, helped himself to a cigar, and in answer to the secretary's question, "Well, what's new, Martin?" he answered, "Stocks were very strong to-day, sir. Steel crossed one hundred and twenty-nine."

"The devil!" exclaimed Bellingham. "You don't mean it!" And forthwith turned eagerly to the papers, for while in his present impoverished condition he had no personal interest in the market's ups and downs, yet in the atmosphere of finance in which he lived it was part of his duty to have at his fingers' ends the daily fluctuations in cotton, stocks and grain. For some moments he studied the pages of the Journal in silence; then handed the paper to Martin, observing, "Well, you're right. And there's the explanation, too."

The butler took the paper from Bellingham's hand, and read, in staring headlines, at the top of the page, "Bull market continues. Marshall Hamilton and Cyrus McKay both said to favor the advance. Steel booked for two hundred."

Martin's eyes glistened. "Mr. Bellingham," he asked earnestly, "do you imagine, sir, that this is true?"

The secretary, with the unbiassed mind of the man who has no stake in the game, meditated for a moment, then answered truthfully, "My dear Martin, I haven't the remotest idea whether it's true or not."

The butler looked visibly disappointed. "If you happen to hear anything, sir," he said in a tone so low that it was almost a whisper, "you know what I mean, sir--any letters or telegrams--I should be most grateful if you'd remember me, sir."

Bellingham nodded. "I'll be glad to," he answered, with just the suggestion of a smile, for the combination of Martin the decorous servant and Martin the eager speculator was one which never failed to amuse him. Then, impelled by mere curiosity, he added, "Which is it this time, Martin? Are you long or short?"

The butler's face was impassive, but his voice was eager with the irrepressible passion of the gambler. "I'm short, sir," he answered. "Quite heavily short. I have every reason to believe, Mr. Bellingham, that we are going to see a severe decline in the market. Unusually severe, sir. But of course I may be wrong."

Bellingham glanced at the papers with renewed interest, running his eye up and down the narrow columns of figures which summarized, in this brief space, the prosperity or the adversity of the entire world. "They're awfully strong," he commented, "and the gains run through the list, too. Locomotive is up four, Crucible three and a half, Steel five. And the rails are strong, too. By Jove, Martin, I believe you are wrong. Be careful you don't come a cropper. Have you any real reason for thinking the market isn't going up?"

"Why, sir," the butler answered, "you may remember that about three months ago it was generally supposed that we were on the brink of a panic. But I am confident that at that time Mr. Hamilton and Mr. McKay and the other gentlemen were buying very heavily indeed. And if that is so, sir, why it hardly seems probable that they would be adding to their purchases now, when stocks are thirty or forty points higher than they were then. In fact, sir, if it's not an impertinence upon my part, I think that if you were to sell Steel short on a scale up--"

But Bellingham interrupted him. "My dear Martin," he observed with a smile, "when a man has dallied with the market all his life, as I have, and suddenly ceases either to buy or to sell, there is usually just one answer," and raising his hand, he formed, with thumb and forefinger the figure zero.

The butler flushed. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said hastily. "I didn't intend--I meant it in a friendly way, sir--"

"Of course you did," Bellingham good-naturedly interposed, "and I appreciate your tip, Martin. I'm only sorry I can't take advantage of it, but I hope you make a million. Oh, and by the way," he added, as the butler rose to go, "would you mind telephoning Saunders to saddle the bay mare? I'll be over right away."

Ten minutes later, on his way to the stables, he met Helen. Hamilton returning from the garden, her arms heaped high with flowers.

"You're not forgetting our golf?" she asked. "Miss Wilton said that you would play."

"Yes, indeed," he answered, "I'm only going for a turn. I'll be back in plenty of time." And as he continued on his way, he found himself thinking, as he had done a hundred times before, that his employer's daughter approached more nearly to his ideal than any other girl whom he had ever seen. He admired her beauty, her charm, her thoughtfulness of others, and most of all he liked the friendliness of her smile and the frank and fearless glance of her dark brown eyes. "No nonsense about her." That was his invariable summing-up of her character, and her friendship had been the pleasantest feature of his employment at Marshall Hamilton's.

Once astride the mare, however, he had no further chance for meditation, for his mount had stood idle for two days, and now seemed to be doing her level best to pull his arms from their sockets, and to break his neck into the bargain. But after he had made the circuit of the lake, and had turned her head toward home, she behaved more sedately, and subconsciously he had already begun to think again of the adventure in the gallery when all at once, as he neared the entrance to the links, the whole affair was suddenly revived by the appearance of Cyrus McKay's motor, drawn up by the side of the road, the chauffeur, a thick-set, bullet-headed young Irishman, sprawled comfortably on the seat, cigarette in mouth. "I'm expecting some friends to play golf." He remembered his employer's phrase, and at once drew rein beside the car.

"Hullo, Jim," he hailed, "how are you? Mr. McKay on the links?"

"Sure," the chauffeur answered, with a yawn. "I brought him out here two hours ago, and I've just come back for him now. So I guess he's had some game."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Bellingham, "it's a perfect day for it, too. You'll find you'll be waiting another half hour yet."

The chauffeur stretched himself luxuriously, happy in the mere enjoyment of the pine-scented air and the languorous warmth of the sun. "Well," he grinned, "it won't worry me any; I'll put my time against his. But on the level, Mr. Bellingham, don't it beat hell? When the boss is working, he's the busiest guy in Wall Street; a minute is worth a thousand dollars; I'm on the jump the whole blamed time. And then he'll come out here to Mr. Hamilton's and waste a whole afternoon chasing a little white ball around a field, making half a dozen rotten shots to every good one. Honestly now, can you beat it?"

Bellingham smiled. "It's relaxation, Jim," he answered, "and that's what the big men have got to have. That's all that keeps them going. Whoa, girl, whoa," for the mare, impatient at the delay, reared straight upward and began to paw the air frantically with her forefeet. There was a momentary struggle while Bellingham coaxed her back to earth again, calling over his shoulder to the chauffeur, "Good-by, Jim, see you again." Then, yielding to a fleeting impulse, he added, "Where are you keeping the car now? I may drop in and see you some day."

"Wheeler's garage," Nolan answered. "Find me there about noon, most any time," and Bellingham, giving the mare her head, arrived at the stables in greater perplexity of mind than ever. "So he's been playing golf," he reflected, "just as he said he would, and according to Jim Nolan, Mr. McKay came to the links at half past two. But that was just the time when I was in the gallery. So Mr. Hamilton couldn't have stayed there long; that's certain. Probably he went straight over to the golf course. But I was working at the window, all that time, and I should surely have seen him. And it's a safe bet that a man can't be in two places at once. So what the devil does it all mean, anyway?"

The village clock was striking five as he and his partner reached the hill which overlooked the first tee. Jock McKenna, the professional, practising faithfully for the open championship, was just making ready to drive, while on the green, two hundred and twenty yards away, a half dozen small white objects bore testimony to the stocky Scotchman's deadly aim. Helen laid her hand restrainingly on Bellingham's arm. "Let's watch him," she whispered, and McKenna, unconscious of his audience, drew back with the free, effortless swing of the born golfer, while the ball, like a shot from a gun, skimmed away toward the fluttering flag, struck, bounded, rolled, first with vigor, then more and more slowly, until it came to a final stop hole high and only a hair's breadth to the left of the green. Helen, with the enthusiasm of a true lover of the game, clapped her hands involuntarily. "Oh splendid, Jock," she cried, "that was a beauty," and the professional, looking quickly up at them, smiled and touched his cap, not ill pleased that his shot had been appreciated.

An instant later, they had joined him upon the tee. "Well, Jock," asked Bellingham, "how did Mr. Hamilton come out with Mr. McKay? I suppose he won, didn't he?"

The professional stared. "'Deed, and there's been no match to-day," he declared. "And more's the pity, for the course was never as good as now. Young Mr. Marshall was down this morning, skelping up my turf for me till I fair had to drive him away, but nobody else has played a stroke."

Helen Hamilton, paying no heed to their talk, had teed her ball, and now, with a deliberate and well-timed swing, sent her ball straight down the fairway for a hundred and fifty yards. "Very good, Miss Helen," was McKenna's comment, "you're improving all the time. What handicap does Mr. Bellingham give you now?"

"A stroke a hole," she answered, "but I only take it to humor him. In another month I shall beat him even."

She spoke chaffingly, and Bellingham answered in similar vein, "Nonsense, I could give you two strokes instead of one," but his thoughts, as he swung, were far distant from the game, and a topped and sliced tee shot came to rest in a sand-trap near the seventeenth green.

Helen Hamilton laughed aloud, and the professional half smiled in sympathy with her triumph, half frowned in disapproval of this most inartistic shot. "You've played golf enough, Mr. Bellingham," he said reprovingly, "to make it a shame for me to have to say 'You didna follow through,' like I would to some beginner. But that was the trouble, man; you checked your swing as though you were no thinking of the shot at all."

"My club turned in my hand," said Bellingham absently. "The grip's worn smooth." But as they started for the green, he was saying to himself, "So they played no golf. And if they weren't on the links, where were they? That's one mystery. And the second is, no matter where they were, what on earth were they doing?" And greatly wondering, he walked onward toward the trap where his misplayed ball lay buried in the sand.

CHAPTER III

[The Golfers]

The Hamilton estate was bounded upon the north by the main highway, and between the road and the hills and valleys of the links extended a strip of woodland, about a quarter of a mile in width, and covered with a dense growth of hemlocks, birches and tall pines towering upward toward the sky, while at the base of these forest giants briars and brambles, shrubs and bushes, had been permitted to grow unchecked, until they had formed a network of underbrush so thick as to be well-nigh impassable.

Upon the same day, and almost at the identical hour when Bellingham stood gazing open-eyed after his employer's vanishing form, a man came slowly through this strip of woodland, proceeding cautiously, with the practised step of the forester, along a path so narrow and so overgrown that it was practically invisible. Yet the man was apparently familiar with his surroundings, and apparently, too, he was not merely a forester, but a huntsman as well, for he carried a gun slung over his shoulder and his clothes and cap of faded green harmonized so perfectly with the underbrush that his furtive progress along the path was almost imperceptible. Slowly and noiselessly he advanced until he had drawn near to a clump of huge firs, set in a natural circle and distant about a hundred yards from the trail which led to the links. Here he paused and dropping on his hands and knees crept through the bushes and entered a hutlike shelter, artfully woven of growing shrubs, where he lay effectually concealed, commanding, through a narrow orifice, a perfect view of the approach to the clump of firs. Next, with leisurely precision, and with no trace of excitement upon his bronzed and weather-beaten face, he proceeded to unsling his weapon from his back and to make it ready for use; and as he did so, one further circumstance became apparent--namely, that he was a huntsman who did not care for noise--a poacher, perhaps--for what had resembled a gun now proved to be an old-fashioned crossbow, of rare and curious workmanship, and this bow the huntsman bent, and then, adjusting the murderous looking bolt, settled down to wait in comfort until his quarry should appear.

Silence descended upon the forest; a silence so profound that it seemed as if animals, birds and insects, all were slumbering amid the quiet of the summer afternoon. Surely, the huntsman had poor prospects of success, yet if this were so, he did not appear to care, but lay motionless, resting quietly, with ears upon the alert and eyes fixed steadily upon the clump of firs.

The moments passed. Then, presently, far up the road, sounded the throbbing rhythm of a motor, and a half a minute later Cyrus McKay's big car drew up at the gateway leading to the links, and McKay, founder and President of the National Wire Trust, stepped leisurely forth, a huge, burly, bull-necked man, with power written in every line of his ruddy, jovial face, in every movement of his big body, and in every glance of his shrewd blue eyes. With something of an effort, he reached for his golf bag, and with a nod to the chauffeur, said, "All right, Jim. Come back at half past four."

The chauffeur touched his cap; the big car turned and sped smoothly down the road, and McKay, left alone, started slowly along the pathway toward the links. Apparently, he anticipated a pleasant afternoon, for as he strolled along he whistled boyishly, burst occasionally into snatches of song, and presently, some distance up the path, he stopped for a moment, drew a white feather from his pocket and adjusted it carefully in his cap; after which he seemed suddenly to alter his mind regarding his destination, for striking boldly off from the trail, he began making his way through the waist-high underbrush, directly toward the clump of firs.

As the sound of the motor had died away in the distance, the huntsman in the thicket had redoubled his vigilance, and now, as the crackling of the bushes grew more and more distinct, his keen eyes swept searchingly about the glade and his fingers tightened upon the stock of his weapon, as if it were for human game that he was thus lying in wait. Yet if this were the fact, it was clearly not McKay whom he was expecting, for as the latter's bulky form loomed into view the hunter relaxed his grip upon his crossbow, and once more resumed his attitude of patient watchfulness.

In the meantime McKay had reached the edge of the circle of firs, and with a shrug of distaste for the ordeal that lay before him, he settled his cap more firmly on his head, and guarding his face with his upraised arm, he at length succeeded in forcing a passage through the close-knit barrier of the trees. Then, extracting a key from his pocket and achieving, not without difficulty, a kneeling posture, he cleared away the soil until a square of steel came into view, and fitting a key to the lock, he threw back the door and disclosed a flight of stone steps, down which, with the utmost nonchalance and as if he were conducting himself in a perfectly normal manner, he promptly disappeared, carefully closing the trap behind him. At the foot of the short flight of steps he paused for a moment, and drawing a flashlight from his pocket proceeded briskly along the narrow passageway, stoutly shored and timbered, until he presently emerged, through a second door of steel, into the underground chamber where Marshall Hamilton stood awaiting him.

The room itself was simply--almost barely--furnished, and in appearance was as conventional as the method of approaching it was unique. The only furniture was a heavy mission table and four chairs to match; a massive safe was set into the wall; at one end of the room stood an old wooden desk, elaborately carved and inlaid, and at the other a sideboard bearing glasses, decanters and cigars.

The two men shook hands with the ease of long acquaintance. "On time, as usual," Hamilton observed.

McKay drew a chair up to the table and sat down. "The others will be here?" he asked.

"Any minute," Hamilton responded with equal brevity. "They come from the south, this time," and the words had scarcely passed his lips when the door opened to admit James Norton, the "Cereal King," and Vincent Brooks, senior partner in the famous banking house of Brooks & Harrington. Brooks was a tall, fair man, often described by his friends as "a fellow who had been dealt every card in the pack." In other words, he had been welcomed, from the day of his birth, into the most aristocratic society in New York, was immensely wealthy, and possessed, into the bargain, great natural ability and a wonderful aptitude for "big business," where the figures ran into billions, and the risks and the rewards were alike staggering to the imagination. Norton, on the other hand, was almost his exact opposite, a dark, eager man of forty, fairly dynamic with energy, who had been favored with no cards by Fortune, and who had thereupon fared blithely forth and had collected an entire pack for himself. In the Wall Street district he had first been hated and despised as an upstart, but later had been made welcome as a man too shrewd and forceful to be ignored.

Immediately the four men seated themselves around the table, and Hamilton, drawing a sheaf of papers from his pocket, proceeded to call the meeting to order and for perhaps fifteen minutes read steadily, interrupted now and again by a comment or a query from one or the other of his associates. At the conclusion of his task, there followed approval and acceptance of his report, the carrying of various formal motions, and then began a low-toned, informal talk between the four, apparently entirely harmonious until McKay and Norton became involved in a discussion which gradually increased in intensity until at length they had the conversation to themselves, Brooks and Hamilton listening with an intentness which made it evident that the subject was one of vital importance. Finally McKay, with the utmost earnestness, spoke at length, summarizing and emphasizing his arguments with all the skill at his command, but when he had concluded it became evident that his efforts had only served to increase Norton's opposition, for the Cereal King struck the table before him with his clenched fist, crying, "No, no, McKay, you're absolutely wrong. You're altogether too conservative. Life is short, and so I say: Let's get all we can."

At this outburst McKay only smiled, and instead of answering he turned to Hamilton. "Would you be kind enough, Marshall," he asked, "to read to us once more the statement showing our profits for the year?"

Hamilton found the document referred to. "Gross," he answered, "seventy millions. Net, after deducting all payments and expenses, forty-two millions."

"Thanks," said McKay briefly, and to Norton he added, "Well, my boy, that makes precisely ten millions and a half apiece for the four of us, to say nothing of what we've disbursed to our subordinates, or of the sums that have been realized by our friends across the water. In the face of such a showing, do you maintain with seriousness that we may be termed ultra-conservative?"

"That," responded Norton with spirit, "is exactly my contention. It's not the actual financial results, in dollars and cents, that I'm criticizing, for as you say, ten millions and a half of sure money is a satisfactory income for anyone. No, my objections are based purely on artistic grounds. When you consider--"

But McKay, with a huge burst of laughter, broke in upon him. "Artistic grounds!" he exclaimed. "Good Heavens, man, you might accuse us of plenty of other things, but not of being inartistic. Why, that is our strong point--our trump card. If we're not artistic, we're nothing."

Norton shook his head. "Only in a sense," he retorted. "In the same way that we hark back to the beginnings of any art. For their age, they sufficed, but in the light of later knowledge and achievement they are bound to appear pitifully crude and inadequate. And so it is with us. Forty years ago the founders of our society were the ablest financiers of their day, and the system which they inaugurated was wonderfully efficient for that period. But think of all that has happened in forty years. Think of the increase in population, the increase in wealth, the increase in the number of enterprises, of corporations and combinations, of securities upon the stock exchange. And yet, in spite of this, we are still satisfied to conduct our business along the old primitive lines of forty years ago. Why, I could take pencil and paper now, and in two minutes I could suggest improvements that would increase our earnings a hundred, two hundred, three hundred per cent. I'm absolutely certain of it."

"I quite agree with you," McKay responded quietly, "there's not a doubt of it. But the answer is: What's the use? Here's a parallel case for you. Suppose, somewhere in some mountain wilderness, you were to come by chance upon an undiscovered stream, simply filled with trout so hungry and so unwary that they would rush ravenously for your bare hook. Under such conditions, would you use bait?"

"Not at first," rejoined Norton. "I'll admit that. But you don't complete your parallel. After a while, as your supply of fish begins to diminish, you will find that those which are left will grow wiser and more suspicious. And that is the time when you will need all your skill, and must use your choicest bait."

"No, no," McKay protested warmly, "that's not a fair argument at all. We are not discussing some possible time when fish grow wise. We are confining ourselves to facts; my premise is that you can catch all you need with your bare hook. And when four men--" he added, with a wave of his hand toward the papers on the table, "can make forty million dollars in twelve months, without half trying, it certainly doesn't appear as if our human fish were possessed of any great supply either of caution or of brains."

Brooks, man of few words, nodded approval. "Right," he interjected. "You're quite right, Cyrus." And to Norton he added significantly, "You don't want to fish out your brook, Jim. If you do, you'll go hungry."

Norton's eyes gleamed. "Perfect rot," he persisted. "That's the same old 'safe and sane' chatter I'm so tired of hearing. In the first place, you can't fish the brook out; there's one born every minute. But wouldn't I like to try it, though. I'd like to start right now; there never was a better chance; and for the next twelve months do nothing else except slaughter the innocents. Big fish, fingerlings, I'd keep 'em all. Never a one would I throw back into the brook to grow. Why, just imagine what we could make, if we once started after it. We'd murder 'em; crucify 'em; skin 'em alive." And he licked his lips covetously at the thought.

McKay's brows contracted. It was not the first time that his own views and those of his younger associate had come into violent contact. "Oh, if you aspire to be a game hog, a professional butcher--" he began, but at this point Marshall Hamilton, who had maintained an unbroken silence, allowing the debate to range unchecked, suddenly leaned forward in his chair. "One moment, Cyrus," he said courteously, "may I interrupt you?" And as McKay assented, the banker continued, "This figure of the trout brook is a very appropriate one, but neither of you has quite completed the picture. To make the parallel exact, you must include a very important person, and that is the owner of the stream."

Norton stared. Then, with the respect which was invariably accorded to the financier, he objected, "I don't think I follow you, Mr. Hamilton. Who is this owner? I should say that we come pretty close to being the owners ourselves."

"No," Hamilton answered, "we are not the owners. There are times when it might appear so, but we must not allow ourselves to be deceived. We are nothing more than poachers--bold, formidable and successful poachers, I admit--but none the less poachers for all that. And though the owner of the stream is stupid and careless, slow to anger and to realize that he is being robbed, still we must never forget that he exists and that when once aroused his power is irresistible."

Brooks looked frankly puzzled. "I cannot suppose, Marshall," he said quizzically, "that after the highly uncomplimentary adjectives you have been using, you are venturing to refer to the individual mentioned in the prayer books as the 'High and Mighty Ruler of the Universe.'"

"No," Hamilton answered briefly, "this is the twentieth century. I'm not bringing God into the discussion in any way."

"I don't understand you either, Marshall," broke in McKay. "I disagree with Norton in many respects, but I do agree with him in this--that so far as this enterprise of ours goes, we are supreme. Whom do you designate as this owner of the stream? Surely not the Law?"

There was a general smile. "No," Hamilton drily responded, "scarcely that. As far as the Courts are concerned, I suppose we may fairly claim that we are the Law."

"And the Profits--" interjected Brooks under his breath, but Hamilton was too much in earnest to heed him, and continued, "No, the owner of the stream is the Public, and the weapon we have to fear is the intangible but terribly effective one of Public Opinion."

"Oh, the Public," commented Norton flippantly, "well, as Vanderbilt said--"

But Hamilton went on gravely. "I assure you that I am quite serious. Our one possible danger is that some day the Public may learn the truth. You all know that periodically, after some spectacular rise or equally spectacular decline in prices, there is sure to be a terrific bleating from the victims, and a plaintive demand that someone must investigate the New York Stock Exchange. Of course these demonstrations don't amount to anything--it's child's play to check them--but if we should adopt Norton's suggestion and should play the game to the limit, then the danger would be correspondingly increased, and if some day the truth should become known--"

Norton interrupted him. "But that is impossible," he declared.

"Impossible," retorted Hamilton, "is a dangerous word. I acknowledge that it is highly improbable--thanks to the founders of this order for taking the precautions that they did--but it's not impossible. There is always 'the plaguy millionth chance.' And grant," he added with increased emphasis, "that the truth should become known; admit, for the sake of the argument, that the public should find out what has been happening to their money for the last forty years, and where would we be? I'll tell you where. We'd be marked men, fleeing for our lives, and never safe from vengeance, even in the uttermost corners of the earth."

No one gainsaid him, and the gravity of his hearers' faces was sufficient confirmation of the importance of what he said. "You're right," Brooks assented. "Quite right," McKay agreed. And Norton, convinced in spite of himself, added thoughtfully, "Well, perhaps you are."

"I'm sure of it," Hamilton answered, "and now, gentlemen, it is time to go. When shall we meet again?"

"I suggest day after to-morrow, at the same hour," said McKay. "To-morrow will be a big day in the market, and we shall have a number of things to discuss."

"Yes, the time is ripe," Hamilton responded, "it is a wonderful opportunity."

"How far will cotton decline?" asked Norton.

"I should say, off-hand," answered Hamilton, "a couple of hundred points, at least. But that will be decided, of course, in the usual way. We can tell better after the first break."

"And wheat," queried Brooks, "will go up?"

"Exactly," said Hamilton. "The conditions there are exactly reversed. The advance will be sharp."

He walked over to the sideboard, filled his friends' glasses, and then raised his own high in the air, glancing, as he did so, at the old desk across the room.

"Here's to our predecessors," he said gravely. "The men who came here forty years ago. The men who have made us what we are to-day."

CHAPTER IV

[A Flurry in the Market]

It still lacked five minutes of ten o'clock, the hour for the daily opening of the Stock Exchange, but the board room at Holt and Henderson's was already filled to suffocation, and presently, as more and more clients came hurrying through the doors, so little space remained that as the crowd surged to and fro frequent forcible collisions became unavoidable. Yet while at any other time these gamblers would promptly have resented this jostling and scrimmaging, now they were so preoccupied and so intent upon their own affairs that they never thought of wasting time, either in apologizing themselves or in demanding an apology from those with whom they had come in contact.

The gathering would have repaid the studies of a psychologist. It numbered at least two hundred men, and apparently every rank and condition of society had furnished a representative. Well-dressed gentlemen rubbed elbows with ragged tipsters and hangers-on of Wall Street; a famous musician examined the "chart" of a no less famous artist; a coachman confident of a rise in July oats swapped theories with a farmer who foresaw a fall in December corn. But though in appearance so strikingly dissimilar, yet in one respect all these men were startlingly alike; not one of them seemed wholly normal. Their aberration displayed itself in various ways. Some were unable to keep still, but moved continually hither and thither, from the news ticker to the newspaper files, from the newspaper files to the bulletin board. Others, though content to remain in one spot, were unable to control their tongues and talked incessantly, the intensity of their speech and their nervous laughter showing the strain under which they were laboring; while others still, of a less friendly temperament, maintained an unbroken silence and a sullen aloofness from their companions.

Occasionally, here and there, small groups collected to discuss one subject, and one only--the future of the three great markets. "Well, what do you know?" was the common salutation, while now and then a customer, seemingly disregarding the grim significance of the phrase, would propound the jocular query, "Well, what are they going to do to us to-day?" Questions, answers, comments, filled the air. "London's up." "How's Liverpool?" "It's a big bull move; they've only started 'em." "I think they're toppy; you can sell 'em on the rallies." So ran the talk of the speculators, vapid and valueless, without end or beginning, and begotten of the fever which consumed their veins.

At one end of the office was a narrow alcove in the wall, just wide enough to contain a single chair, and this seat was now pre-empted, as it had been for the past month, by a man who at least in appearance presented a marked contrast to his fellow gamblers. He was young and exceptionally good-looking, with the build and bearing of an athlete, while his clear-cut features betokened not only birth and breeding, but also no lack of determination and tenacity of purpose. His whole attitude, indeed, suggested confidence in himself, and the occasional glances which he bestowed upon his companions were somewhat disdainful, as though he despised them for their excitement and their lack of self-control. Yet he himself, although quite unaware of it, was not exempt from the universal nervousness of the office, for every few moments he cast a quick glance upward at the clock, and repeatedly drew from his pocket a small memorandum book, studying it as the patron of the race track examines his wagers before the beginning of a race.

The hands of the clock pointed to ten o'clock; a bell tinkled sharply; and the tickers, like sprinters shooting from their marks at the starter's signal, commenced clicking and whirring at breakneck speed, while Demming, the red-headed, pot-bellied customers' man, began bellowing forth the quotations with an air of omnipotence which suggested that he alone was responsible for all that was taking place. "Crucible, ninety-four," he cried, "Union, one hundred and fifty-three; Steel, one hundred and twenty-seven and a half," and then, to divert his audience, and to show that he was a genuine humorist, he dropped into the time-honored slang of the street, and with a smirk of self-appreciation, went on chanting, "Annie Connolly, one hundred and five; Old Dog, sixty-two; Soup, par and a quarter."

The young man in the corner listened eagerly, noting the prices, as the board boys posted them, with an approving eye. "Still strong," he said half-aloud, "they're going up, all right," and he had settled himself to watch in comfort the rise that was to make him rich when one of the employees of the office came hastily up to him.

"If you please, Mr. Atherton," he said respectfully, "Mr. Holt would like to see you for a moment, sir, in his office."

Atherton looked at him in surprise. "Are you sure you have the right name?" he queried. "I don't like to leave the board just now."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure," the man responded. "In fact, Mr. Holt said that he particularly wished to see you at once."

Atherton rose. "Very well, then," he answered shortly, "if it's as important as that, I'll go."

In the private office he found both partners seated at the long table in the centre of the room. Holt was tall, dark and solemn; Henderson short, rosy and never without a smile; so that almost inevitably they had become known to employees and customers alike as "Joy" and "Gloom." They greeted him pleasantly enough, and after he had taken a seat, Holt picked up a card from the table and with a preliminary clearing of his throat, observed, "Our margin clerk has called our attention, Mr. Atherton, to the state of your account, and I thought that I had better speak to you about it."

Atherton, with the touchiness of a very young man, at once took offence. "I wasn't aware," he said stiffly, "that my account was not in good shape. But if you object to it, I suppose I can take it elsewhere."

At this retort, Mr. Holt's solemnity visibly increased, but the smiling Henderson, at his best in such an emergency, came promptly to the rescue. "Now, now, Mr. Atherton," he remonstrated, "don't be so hasty. There's nothing wrong with your account as it stands, and it's an account that we're very glad to have in the office, and that we don't wish to lose. But Mr. Holt is merely suggesting to you, for your own good, that you are rather crowding things. You've been carrying twenty-five hundred shares of Steel; yesterday, at the close, you bought twenty-five hundred more. And as your deposit with us is just about fifty thousand dollars, it is obvious that you are getting pretty close to the danger line."

"Quite so," Atherton acknowledged, "but that is my lookout. As long as I keep my ten point margin good, why should you worry?"

"That," resumed Mr. Holt, "is exactly the question. Are we to understand that in the event of a decline in the market, you stand ready to deposit additional sums as we may require them?"

"No," Atherton answered frankly, "you're not to understand anything of the sort. All the money I have in the world is in here now. But the market is going up and you're not obliged to worry about more margin; if there should be a drop, then we can talk things over again."

Mr. Holt heaved a sigh of impatience. "You young men, Mr. Atherton," he complained, "are all alike. You are too cocksure about everything. Now you can't tell anything about this market; it may go up; it may go off; but to try to carry five thousand shares of Steel on a ten point margin is absolute madness--I've been in the brokerage business long enough to know that. Sell out half your holdings, Mr. Atherton, and then, if a drop comes, you won't be giving us all nervous prostration."

Atherton frowned. He had calculated his profits so many times that the thought of seeing them cut in halves did not appeal to him in the least. "I don't want to sell," he demurred. "I tell you this market can't go down. The Steel Corporation is earning more money than at any time in its history. Everyone says it's going to cross two hundred. So don't be too particular about my margin; they don't always insist on ten points in other offices."

"More fools they," retorted Holt briskly, but Henderson, foreseeing in Atherton's attitude the possible loss of a good customer, hastened to make a suggestion.

"Personally, Mr. Atherton," he observed, "I think Mr. Holt is quite right. We've been in this business a long time, and we've seen many a good man embarrassed for lack of sufficient margin. But if you feel confident that we are in a big bull market, and are willing to take your chances, we will carry you, provided you will sign an order authorizing us to sell you out if steel reacts to one hundred and twenty. In other words, you give us a stop loss order for our protection, and take your chances of being caught. It's rank gambling on your part, Mr. Atherton, and we won't always agree to carry you overnight, but if it is an accommodation to you, we will carry you along from day to day, and give you the opportunity of making a big killing if the market goes up."

Atherton reflected, and obsessed as he was with the idea that the market was going much higher, Mr. Henderson's scheme impressed him favorably. With his stock selling at over one hundred and twenty-seven, a recession to one hundred and twenty seemed impossible, and by signing the stop loss order he would be enabled to hold the whole of his five thousand shares. Accordingly, since it was no time for delay, he made up his mind at once and promptly answered, "Very well, I'll do it."

At once Mr. Holt selected a "sell order" from the printed slips upon the table, filled in the figures agreed upon, and Atherton, hastily signing his name, hurried back to the board room to find, to his delight, that Steel had advanced to one hundred and twenty-eight. This, however, appeared to be a critical point in the struggle, and while the transactions increased to enormous proportions, the fluctuations narrowed correspondingly. Up an eighth, down a quarter, up an eighth again, while every few moments Demming's voice could be heard roaring vociferously, "A thousand Steel--three thousand Steel--five thousand Steel--"

Eleven o'clock came, and twelve, and Atherton, in view of the market's steadiness, decided to go out to lunch. But the grip of the game had laid its spell upon him, and without the board before his eyes he became so nervous and ill at ease that he ate his meal at breakneck speed, raced hurriedly back to Holt and Henderson's, and drawing a breath of relief as he regained the familiar entrance, he thrust open the door and went in. Yet scarcely had he crossed the threshold when he realized that during his brief absence from the office something sensational must have occurred. The room was in a turmoil; a bedlam of sound filled the air; a mob of dishevelled customers fought their way madly toward the windows of the order clerks, elbowing and shoving each other this way and that in their frenzied eagerness to buy or sell. Waters, regulator of margins, ordinarily the coolest man in the world, now stood in the rear of the office, crimson-faced, perspiring, sorting and shuffling a sheaf of customers' cards in his hands, and sending his subordinates rushing hither and thither in pursuit of those unfortunates whose slenderly margined accounts were either already submerged or in imminent danger of becoming so at any moment.

All this Atherton saw in one lightning flash of vision; the next moment his eyes leaped to the board and he gasped to see in the Steel column the figures, one twenty-four, while in the same breath he heard the voice of Demming, hoarse and exhausted, but still powerful, roaring out "Union, one forty-nine; Reading, one hundred and three; Steel, one twenty-three and seven-eighths, three-quarters, five-eighths, a half--"

In a second the calm and confidence of the past few weeks, born of a rising market and the conviction that he was making his fortune, vanished utterly, leaving him weak, trembling and panic-stricken. No longer despising his fellow gamblers, he grasped the first who passed him by the arm. "What's up?" he cried. "What the devil's happened?"

"War!" the man shouted in reply. "War with Japan! Battleships and submarines off the Pacific coast! A whole fleet of 'em. Hell to pay. I'm going to sell 'em short, right here."

He rushed away in the direction of the order clerks, leaving Atherton perplexed and dismayed. A short distance away from him he noticed a man, apparently calm amid the confusion, whom Demming had once pointed out to him as the best judge of the market among all the customers of Holt and Henderson. Without the loss of a moment, Atherton walked up to him. "What do you think of 'em?" he asked anxiously, "Are they going lower?"

The man did not take his eyes from the board, but answered courteously enough, "I can't tell. It's a big bear raid. I've thought for the last few weeks the big men were getting out."

"But I thought all the big men were in" protested Atherton. "That's what all the papers have been saying."

The trader grinned sardonically. "There's a lot in the papers that oughtn't to be there," he rejoined, "and there's a long sight more that isn't there, but ought to be. There's only one explanation of this. The public are ninety-five per cent long of stocks, and the insiders are getting them! That's all; it's the same old game."

Atherton reflected. "But the warships--" he queried.

"All in your eye," was the trader's response. "It will be denied to-morrow. But they're doing just as much damage," he added, with a gesture toward the board, "as if they were real. When the crowd takes fright, it's all over. Down go stocks, and then the big men load up again at the bottom, and sell again at the top. It's what you might call a crime, if you dared to."

At this new view of the stock market, Atherton felt more perplexed than ever. "Then you think they'll rally?" he ventured.

"Sure," his informant agreed, "but you can't tell how much lower they'll go first. It all depends on how heavily the public is in the market. I know what the bears are aiming at, and that's one hundred and twenty on Steel; that was the old low, six weeks ago. If it goes through there, good-night."

Atherton shuddered, for by coincidence this was precisely the point at which his stop order would be reached. Yet he hesitated to put much confidence in this stray acquaintance and his theories. Big men slaughtering the public so wantonly, false reports in circulation, prices being swayed, not by basic conditions, but by manipulation and by such strange fetishes as "new lows"--if all these things were true, his faith in human nature and in the goodness of the world had been sadly misplaced. "But look here," he objected, "Steel can't go down like this. Why, the earnings for the last quarter--"

The trader's grin widened, and for the first time he turned away from the board and gazed squarely at Atherton, as if at some new and interesting specimen of mankind. "Earnings," he repeated vaguely, and still again, more forcibly, "Earnings!" And at last, as though realizing the inadequacy of speech, he muttered tolerantly and not unkindly, "Oh, hell--" and turning on his heel, walked over toward the board.

Atherton, bewildered and abashed, stole back to his alcove, and sat down to watch the progress of the fight. In his mind, he pictured to himself the rival armies--the bears red-faced, scowling, domineering men, objectionable to a degree, pirates of the Exchange, attempting to wreck a stock like Steel; the bulls sane, conservative men of affairs, shrewd judges of fundamental conditions, men, in fact, much like himself. And he could not doubt that the bulls would win. Up went Steel an eighth, and he thrilled with pride for those who were defending it; down it went a quarter, and he shook with fear of these reckless raiders and highwaymen.

And so the battle raged. Two o'clock came and went, and suddenly Atherton realized the sensations of a wearied fighter in the ring, striving to hold his own until the clanging of the gong to mark the end of the round. "If only it holds another hour," he thought. Then he would at least have a respite until the following morning, a chance to decide matters at his leisure without this frightful accompaniment of sound and fury, this whirling maelstrom of men seeking desperately to make new dollars or trying more desperately still to cling to the dollars they already owned. If the market would only hold--

But even as these thoughts were shaping in his mind, there came a furious onslaught from the bears. One hundred and twenty-three for Steel, twenty-two and a half, twenty-two, twenty-one and three quarters. He could feel the blood surging to his brain, and his hands clenched as though he were fighting physically for victory. Then a rally and a long fight around twenty-three. But he could feel, with a gambler's instinct, that there was no life to the advance, and sure enough, as he had feared, presently the tide began once more to ebb. Twenty-two again, twenty-one and a half, then suddenly, with a bull-like bellow from Demming, one hundred and twenty-one, twenty and seven-eighths. For the fiftieth time he glanced up at the clock; two, thirty-five; only twenty-five minutes more, but less than a point lay between him and virtual ruin. His lip trembled, his knees shook under him, and without realizing that there was anything incongruous in such a proceeding, he began to pray fervently, imploringly--

In the midst of the group which thronged, five deep, around the ticker, suddenly arose wild commotion. Atherton could discern faces frenzied with joy; other faces torn with anguish; heard, above the tumult, some one cry shrilly, "They've done it!" and the next instant, Demming, in tones of incredulous wonder, was reporting the cataclysm, "Union, forty-eight, seven, six; Reading, ninety-nine, eight, seven and a half; Steel, one hundred and twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen--"

Atherton stood dazed, benumbed; the blow had fallen so quickly that for a moment he could not grasp the truth. Then all at once he knew--knew that he had lost not only the fortune he had sought but most of the capital which he had risked to gain it. Steel at one hundred and twenty; he would have fifteen thousand dollars left; but instantly he recalled the lightning speed of the sheer drop to one hundred and sixteen, and wondered whether he had been fortunate enough to escape at the stop loss figure. There was but one way to find out, and mingling with the crowd, he fought his way to the order clerk's window, and presently caught the eye of Curtis, his particular friend among the office force. The clerk shook his head dubiously. "No word yet, Mr. Atherton," he called, "everything is away behind." And thus, for ten minutes which seemed unending, Atherton maintained his place until at last Curtis bent quickly forward, scribbled some figures upon a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it through the window. Atherton seized it, made his way back to the alcove, and tense with excitement, unfolded it to see staring up at him the figures 117-5/8. His fears were realized--deducting commissions, his account was practically wiped out of existence. And suddenly a frenzied desire seized him to leave the place and never to see the inside of a broker's office again. There was a moment's delay at the cashier's window, and then, residue of the fifty thousand he had staked, there came back to him a check for thirteen hundred and forty dollars and seventy cents. He thrust it into his pocket, and started for the door.

Around the board the storm was still raging, but now a different note was in the air. "Steel, one twenty-one," he heard, "twenty-two, three and a half, twenty-four." The trader whom he had questioned stood in his path, and recognizing Atherton, he said, "They've turned. Just as I thought. Warship story's denied. All a mistake; Japan expresses warm friendship. They'll come back strong now. You can buy 'em right where they are."

Without answer, Atherton passed on. In his heart smouldered a fierce resentment--a bitter hatred of everybody and everything connected with the gambler's trade. Forgetting, for the moment, that he had only himself to blame, he felt that he had somehow been tricked, deceived, robbed. And as he opened the door, and banged it to behind him, the last sound which rang in his ears was Demming's frenzied shriek, "Steel, twenty-six and three-quarters, twenty-seven!"

Outside, in the street, the world was bathed in sunshine. Overhead the sky was blue. About him, on every side, men and women were going about their appointed tasks, alert, smiling, unbelievably happy. Of a sudden Atherton's vision cleared, and in a flash of readjustment, he realized, for the first time, the incredible folly of what he had done.

CHAPTER V

[Fools Rush In]

Bellingham was alone in his room. Before him, on his desk, lay letters from his creditors, and beside them a timetable of the local trains. The telephone leading to the stables stood within easy reach of his hand, yet he made no effort to lift the receiver from its resting-place, but remained irresolute and motionless, a picture of indecision. Over and over again, during the last two days, he had tried to make up his mind as to the course he should pursue, but his endeavors had been unavailing, and he was still as far from a conclusion as ever.

Upon one hand, Decency and Caution combined to warn him. Urged Decency, "You are living under Marshall Hamilton's roof; accepting his money; eating his bread. By the merest chance, you have seen something which you were never intended to see. In loyalty to your employer, you should dismiss it from your mind, and never think of it again." And Caution added, "All that Decency says is true, and you must remember that there is a further consideration, which is more important still. That is your own safety. There is a mystery here, and it is the experience of mankind that mystery, as a rule, goes hand in hand with danger. You may not be satisfied with things as they are, but do not forget that nothing is ever so bad that you cannot make it still worse. Therefore you will be wise to drop the whole affair, once and for all."

Thus argued Decency and Caution, but opposed to them, in Bellingham's troubled mind, were another pair of powerful allies, Desperation and Curiosity. Clamored Desperation, "If you cannot find the money to pay your debts, your creditors will very shortly complain to Mr. Hamilton. There is no doubt of that; the proof of it lies in black and white on the table in front of you. And when Mr. Hamilton learns of your financial condition, he will discharge you at once; that is one point about which he is most particular. You will lose this position, and you will have difficulty in finding another; and thus you will drag through life a failure, with the millstone of debt bound fast around your neck."

So, with pitiless candor, spoke Desperation, and Curiosity, knowing the glamor of adventure and the charm of the unknown, added alluringly, "This is no ordinary mystery; Marshall Hamilton and Cyrus McKay are two of the biggest men in New York. Opportunity, they say, knocks but once, and this may be your life's turning-point. You cannot disregard it."

Thus the secretary gave ear to all these arguments in turn, but in the end it was the promptings of Caution that he heeded most, for the primary instinct of self-preservation told him that life, even to a man hampered by his debts, was still much to be preferred to death and oblivion. Yet it was hard for him to think of wholly abandoning the undertaking, and presently it occurred to him that there was more than one method of solving the mystery, and that a compromise was not in the least impossible. It was true that Marshall Hamilton had vanished through a picture in the wall, but it was also true that Cyrus McKay had disappeared into the woods adjoining the links; and while Caution counselled him to avoid the gallery, Curiosity, on the other hand, persistently insisted upon a vicarious pursuit of McKay.

Nolan, of course, was clearly the man for the job. He drove his employer to the golf course; therefore he had the opportunity. He was physically strong and courageous; therefore he would not shrink from danger. And he was pleasure-loving and always in debt; therefore a reward would be certain to appeal to him. Beyond question, Nolan was the man.

"But is it right," asked Decency, "to send someone else where you would not venture yourself?" To which query Desperation promptly answered, "Oh, in this world you can't be too particular; it's a case of each man for himself. There probably isn't any danger, anyway, and if you should get hold of anything really valuable, you can make it right with Nolan later."

Thus the discussion ended. "I'll try it," decided Bellingham, and taking the receiver from the hook he telephoned to the stables and ordered the motor in time to catch the next train for town.

An hour later, he emerged from the subway, and made his way rapidly down the street in the direction of the garage where Nolan kept his car. A sense of guilt oppressed him, and though he realized that his fears were wholly groundless, he could not prevent himself from casting occasional furtive glances to left and right, as though apprehensive of pursuit.

At length he came to the garage, and hailing the first workman whom he met, inquired if Nolan were around. The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Back of the shop," he answered briefly. "Sixth floor. Freight elevator. Run it yourself." And went on with his task.

Bellingham made his way in the direction indicated, entered the elevator and pulled the rope, and began his leisurely ascent past floor after floor littered with cars--cars new and old, cars good and bad, cars whole and cars dismembered--until he came to the sixth story, where he stopped the elevator and to his joy discovered Nolan, cigarette in mouth, seated placidly upon a bench at the end of the room, superintending repairs, real or imaginary, upon Mr. McKay's machine. Thrilling with renewed excitement, the secretary walked over to him, and Nolan, when he recognized his visitor, greeted him cordially.

"Hello, Mr. Bellingham," he cried. "Didn't expect to see you quite so soon."

"Oh, just a little business matter," the secretary replied, trying hard to make his voice sound nonchalant and under control. "Walk over as far as the window, and I'll tell you what I want."

Nolan rose at once, and as soon as they were safely out of earshot, Bellingham continued, "Look here, Jim, do you want to make some easy money?"

The chauffeur grinned, and for answer inserted thumb and forefinger in the pocket of his coat, exposing the empty lining. "Ah, say," he rejoined, "don't ask me none of those easy ones. Try me with something hard."

Bellingham felt his spirits rise. "That's the way to talk," he said, "and here's what I want you to do. You remember taking Mr. McKay out to Mr. Hamilton's day before yesterday to play golf. Well, he didn't play; I know that for a fact. And what is more, I believe that he and Mr. Hamilton have some kind of secret meeting-place near the golf links. So the next time you go out there, I want you to drive away as usual, and then, after you round the first curve in the road, you can stop your car, double back along the wall, and trail after him to see where he goes. And for your trouble, Jim, I'm going to be just fool enough to give you fifty dollars."

Nolan deliberated. Fifty dollars was worth making, but his job was a good one, and he had no wish to lose it. "Well," he answered at last, "here's one trouble, right away. The boss is a pretty wise old guy, and this trailing business is a new game for me. The betting is that I trip over a tree, go on my nut, and when his nibs turns around and asks me what the devil I'm doing there, why where's my alibi?"

"Alibi?" echoed the secretary. "Why, that's easy; there's nothing to that at all. Mr. McKay keeps his clubs in the machine, doesn't he?"

"Yes, always," rejoined Nolan. "They're in there now."

"Then that settles it," said Bellingham. "All you need to do is to take out his putter and hide it under the seat. Then when you start after him, take the putter with you, and if by any chance he sees you coming after him, just wave it around your head and tell him it dropped in the car and you knew he needed it. How about that?"

"That," agreed Nolan, "is certainly good. Pretty smooth, I call that."

"Then you'll do it?" asked Bellingham eagerly.

The chauffeur did not hasten his reply. "Well," he said at length, "I suppose I'm taking chances, after all, and I figure that if the job's worth fifty dollars, it's worth a hundred."

The secretary did not stop to argue. "Very well," he assented, "a hundred it is."

"And it's also worth," the chauffeur continued, "just about twenty dollars down, to bind the bargain."

Bellingham drew out his pocket-book; then hesitated in his turn. "But how do I know," he objected, "when you will be going out there again?"

"That's easy," Nolan answered, "because we're going this very afternoon. So you're bound to get some action for your money, all right."

Bellingham felt his nerves tingle with excitement, and without further protest he handed the money to the chauffeur. "Good for you, Jim," he said. "I'll be here to-morrow, at this same time, and I'll give you the balance then."

"I'll be here," Nolan agreed, "and now I must get back and see that those strikers don't put my car to the bad. If she don't run perfect, I'll get it from the old man. So good-by, Mr. Bellingham."

"Good-by," echoed the secretary, and descending as he had come, he walked quickly away up the street, greatly wondering what news Nolan would have for him on the morrow.

Promptly at half past two, that afternoon, Cyrus McKay's motor stopped at the gateway leading to the links, and as before McKay alighted, took his clubs from the machine, and said to the chauffeur, "Four thirty, Jim."

There was no sign of anything unusual in Nolan's manner. "Yes, sir, four thirty," he answered, and touching his cap, he turned his car and sped briskly away for the city. Yet no sooner had he turned the curve of which Bellingham had spoken, than he began swiftly to execute his plan. Drawing in to the side of the road, he shut off his power, extracted his employer's putter from under the seat, and tossing his cap, with its conspicuous black visor, into the car, he vaulted the wall and began to work back toward the path. Fortune favored him, for the underbrush had gained no hold upon the smooth masonry, and he was able to make rapid progress, so that only a short time elapsed before he regained the entrance to the links. His next task was to find some trace of his employer, but a quick glance down the path revealed nothing and Nolan, puzzled, walked straight ahead toward the links, casting quick glances to right and left of him as he advanced. Presently, halfway down the trail, a twig snapped to his left, and quickly turning his head, he saw McKay slowly forcing his way through the bushes in the direction of a circle of huge firs. At the sight, Nolan's usual calm deserted him, and his pulse beat faster. "There is something queer, then," he thought, and bending low he crept stealthily after his employer, like a hunter stalking his game.

Little by little, favored by his slighter build, he gained upon McKay until the distance between them had been decreased one-half, whereupon he tried to gain no more but was content simply to keep pace with the man whom he was trailing. Straight onward toward the firs McKay made his way, and when he reached them, instead of turning aside, he stooped and began to seek an entrance through their branches' barricade.

Nolan felt his wonderment increase. "The Devil," he murmured, and fearful lest he might lose sight of his employer, he sacrificed safety to speed, and stole rapidly onward until he too had reached the border of the trees. Ahead of him, he could faintly discern his master's form, and the continual snapping of twigs made it evident that he was still advancing. For a moment Nolan stood motionless, uncertain what to do. His heart was beating violently. If he continued to follow, the pretext of the forgotten putter could hardly serve him as an excuse; if he went on from this point, it was at his own risk. And suddenly, for no apparent reason, fear seized him. In the shelter and silence of the forest, he seemed to himself to shrink and grow small; the solitude oppressed him; and he stood like a man in a dream, scarcely breathing and noting, subconsciously, the beauty of the rifts of sunlight which filtered through the trees. "I guess," he muttered, "I'll be getting back." But even as he spoke the words, there sounded behind him a faint twang, as of a cord released--

He was running, running and leaping magnificently, running as he had never run before. Whither he was going, he could not tell, for the power of sight had left him, but he felt that he was travelling through space with incredible speed. A singular buoyancy had permeated his whole being, so that it seemed to him that he was no longer upon the earth, but was whirling over sea and land and sky. Onward he swept, still onward--

But now, little by little, he could feel that his speed diminished, and that he was struggling upward, like some submerged and drowning swimmer, from darkness toward the light. Slower and slower he ran, more slowly still--

His eyes opened. He was lying among the bushes, flat upon his face, and he realized that he was in frightful pain, and that he gasped painfully for breath; something was choking him; throat and lungs were filled with it. And as his brain cleared, suddenly he knew, although too far spent to conjecture what had befallen him, that he was very near to death. He tried to move--

There was a trampling in the bushes, and a man in faded green stood over him. Then he felt himself roughly seized by the chin, his head was bent back, further, further--something gleamed and glittered in the sunlight--

Calmly, and without emotion, the huntsman stood looking down upon the murdered man. "Only three," he murmured, "in all these years. One in my father's time; two in mine." And after a pause, he added, "How could this man have known? And is he the only one, or will others come to tempt their destiny?"

CHAPTER VI

[Misery Meets Company]

Daylight was fading; the shadows of the trees lengthened upon the grass; yet Atherton made no move to leave the park, but still sat motionless, oblivious to everything except the turmoil of his thoughts.

From the office of Holt and Henderson he had walked blindly along, heedless of his destination, until as he had neared the lake a sudden weariness had seized him and he had sunk down upon a bench to rest. For a time, he could scarcely convince himself of the reality of what had occurred; seen in retrospect, it all appeared fantastic and of the texture of a dream. But at length, as the afternoon wore on, and the shrill clamor of the newsboys filled the park, he purchased a paper and when he read, in black and white, the story of the day's decline, his last hope vanished and he knew that this was no nightmare, but reality, and that financially he was a ruined man.

At first, the burden of his calamity seemed too hard to bear. Fifty thousand dollars! While he had possessed it, never dreaming of its loss, he had not appreciated its magnitude, but now that it was gone, he realized what a sum of money it was. So marvellously easy to lose; so tremendously difficult to regain. But presently, since he was young, and by no means a coward, he managed to recover his courage. He had made a bad mistake, but so had other men; he had a difficult task before him, but others had faced problems still more difficult, and had triumphantly solved them. Therefore he resolved that beginning with to-morrow he would put the past behind him, and would think only of the future; but this afternoon he would not try to plan--his brain was weary and the tragedy of the day was still too recent and too deeply in his thoughts. And suddenly, as he lived over again the past few weeks, it dawned upon him that he had been quite mad, and not he alone, but all these other men who had sat and talked and laughed their futile laughter while the narrow ribbon of the tape spelled ruin for them before their very eyes. How had he dared, he wondered--how did any of them dare--to speculate in stocks? What did they know of real conditions throughout the world? In the papers they read bits of news, already stale and cold, and this news they swallowed and assimilated until at last they mistook its effect upon their minds for the process of original thought. So it had been with him. Over and over again, for days, he had read, first in one form, then in another, the news that Steel was going up; until he had ended by believing it with a fervor that nothing could shake; imagining, moreover, that he had shrewdly reasoned this out for himself, that he was a good judge of commerce, finance, trade--that because of his ability he could make a fortune in stocks--he laughed ironically; disillusionment had been absolute, complete, a hammer stroke--"The Boy Gambler," he murmured to himself, "A Story of Punctured Pride."

Twilight deepened; the night breeze, grateful and refreshing, swept across the water, and all at once Atherton remembered that he had not eaten since his ill-omened luncheon and that he was ravenously hungry. "It's lucky," he reflected, "that I've enough left for a meal," and forthwith made his way toward the Sign of the Peacock, a café where he knew that evening dress was not required, and where food, wines and music vied each with the other in excellence.

The head waiter greeted him with his customary smiling welcome. "All alone to-night, Mr. Atherton?" he inquired; and Atherton, answering mechanically, "Yes, for one, please," was shown to a table near the window, but no sooner had he seated himself than Henri, the second in command, came bustling up to him. "Ze zhentlemen," he explained, "across ze room--zey ask ze honnaire--" and he waved his hand with a gesture deprecatory but inviting.

Atherton glanced in the direction indicated, and immediately recognized the two men as friends and classmates of his college days. Blagden, tall, dark, good-looking, had been one of those attractive but unreliable students who are more brilliant than successful, more admired than liked, so that on the whole his University course had been more spectacular than satisfying. But though open to plenty of criticism on other grounds, no one had ever denied him the qualities of courage, coolness and "nerve," and these had won for him outdoors the title of tennis champion, indoors the still more valuable reputation of being the best poker player in college. The other man, thickset, solid, rosy, with the neck of a bull, was "Tubby" Mills, guard upon the eleven for three seasons; never quite of "All-America" timber, but steady, dependable, and always managing to let the man opposed to him in the line realize, before the game was ended, that he had been through an afternoon of exercise perhaps more strenuous than beneficial. Stolid but likable, "Tubby" made up in genial good nature what he perhaps lacked in brains.

Atherton rose at once, crossed the room and took the vacant chair at their table.

"Well, well," Blagden greeted him, "how goes it, old scout?" And so strong is the force of habit that Atherton, despite the day's reverses, rejoined, "Oh, first-rate, thanks. How is it with you?"

"Fine," Blagden responded, "couldn't be better. Everything lovely."

"And you, Tubby," said Atherton, turning to Mills.

"Oh, pretty good," the chubby one answered, and pushing the bill of fare toward Atherton, he added, "Here, what will you have? This is on me. Better try a porterhouse with onions; we've ordered some fizz."

Atherton followed his advice, and the talk, running back to college days and college classmates, dealt for a time wholly with the past until at last, after a pause, Blagden asked the question that Atherton had been expecting, "And what are you doing with yourself now?"

Atherton hesitated; then, inspired perhaps by the comforting influence of the steak and the "fizz," he answered impulsively, "Oh, I might as well tell you the truth. I've been playing the market, and like a fool I got in so deep that this drop to-day wiped me out. So I'm practically busted, and wondering what I'm going to do next."

Having finished his disclosure, he awaited the conventional expressions of sympathy from his friends, but to his surprise neither of them spoke, and Blagden stared at Mills, and Mills at Blagden until presently, somewhat to Atherton's resentment, both of them began to grin broadly.

"Shall we tell him, Tubby?" asked Blagden at length. "Sure thing," responded Mills briefly. "He told us."

Blagden turned to Atherton. "Well, then," he observed, "to borrow a phrase from the unregenerate and indefensible game of poker, this appears to be a case of three of a kind. Last week, I was long of twelve thousand bales of January cotton, and they dropped the market on me one hundred and fifty points in two days, and beggared me to the tune of about ninety thousand dollars. To-day Tubby, who has been a terrible bear on wheat, and was short up to his eyebrows, got forced out on the rise, and was stung for--how much was it, Tubby?"

"Oh, about thirty-five thousand," answered Mills regretfully, "between thirty-five and forty. I bit off more than I could chew."

In spite of himself, Atherton smiled in his turn. "Well, I'll be damned," was his first rejoinder, and then, as the real significance of the coincidence dawned upon him, he cried, "What's the trouble with this speculative game, anyway? Why on earth can't anyone beat it? We're not all fools. Suppose a hundred men start speculating on the same day? You'd naturally suppose, on some kind of law of averages, that half of them would win and half would lose. But what's the answer? The answer is that the whole darned hundred lose. I never knew it to fail. And I'd like to know why. It can't be true that everybody who invests money in cotton and grain and stocks is stark, staring crazy. There must be some men who understand conditions, who possess ability enough to calculate and plan; there must be some winners. But if they are, I never heard of 'em. It's a mighty funny game."

"You're right," Blagden assented. "I've been doing some thinking myself since last week; I've been asking the very questions you're asking now. I can't find the answer, but I've got this far; I know why poor idiots like you and me and Tubby get it in the neck. It's because we play the game single-handed. And look at what we're up against. This is an age of consolidation and co-operation. It's so in business and it's so in the markets. Pools--that's all you hear nowadays--pools in leather, copper, oil, cotton, corn. And we're fools enough, with a few thousand dollars, to go into a game where you need millions. And as for talking about understanding conditions, and calculating what the market ought to do, why good Lord, Atherton, you ought to know better than that. Speculation is only another way of spelling manipulation. Prices don't go up--they're forced up; they don't go down--they're jammed down, and sometimes most curiously far, too. But as for planning, calculating, reading, studying conditions--good night!" And he refilled his glass.

There was a thoughtful silence. Atherton, pondering on what Blagden had said, and remembering, also, what the trader at Holt and Henderson's had told him, felt that his ideas of speculation had undergone a violent change. So that at length he answered reluctantly, "Well, it looks as though you were right. But I wish we'd thought of this before. Now it's a case of 'They've got the money and we've got the experience.'"

Mills leaned forward, planting his elbows comfortably upon the table. "That's so," he agreed, "I never could see much sense in this post mortem business. The point is: What are we going to do next? And I for one wish it distinctly understood that I refuse to be licked. I started out to make a million dollars, and I'm not going to quit until I'm put away in a box underground. You two fellows were considered rather clever when you were in college, so instead of all this sob stuff why don't you furnish some practical wisdom? What are we going to do? How are we going to get our money back?"

Atherton gazed at his stocky friend, not without admiration for his grit. "Blagden," he answered, "has made one mighty good suggestion. Whatever we do, let's not continue this 'lone hand' business; let's take his tip that this is an age of consolidation, and let's pool our resources, such as they are, and see if we can't manage to do a little better."

Mills grunted approval. "Good scheme," he assented. "We'll be a regular trust. But when you say, 'resources, such as they are,' you've put your finger on our weakest spot. If we have resources, they're not in cash. What shall we call ourselves? 'The United Brotherhood of Down and Outs'? Or is that too severe?"

But Blagden, the imaginative, suddenly caught fire at the idea. "No, no," he objected, "nothing as crude as that. Give a dog a bad name and hang him. I'll tell you what we'll call ourselves. 'Gentlemen Adventurers.' That has the proper ring. Every morning we'll start forth on a tour of discovery; then we'll meet and compare notes and see if we can't combine our experiences to our mutual advantage."

"That sounds fine," Mills agreed, "but what kind of adventures are we going to have?"

"Oh, Tubby, Tubby," cried Blagden. "If there's a more prosaic man in the world than you are, I'd like to see him. Why, you miss the point of the whole thing. If we knew just what was going to happen to us, every day of our lives, where would the fun be? Where would be the romance, the thrill? If you could see an adventure coming half a mile down the road, then it wouldn't be an adventure; it has to bump into you from right around the corner. Do you get the idea?"

"Oh, sure," retorted Mills. "At least, I get what you think is the idea. But that is the trouble with you poetical chaps; you can't understand that this is a practical world, especially the dollars and cents part of it. And if you're proposing that we leave here to-night and start looking for adventure, why we'd better raise an emergency fund at once. Because instead of finding money, we'll be losing it. I've started looking for adventure lots of times in my life, and I always bring up in one of two places--the police station or the hospital."

"Oh, I don't mean that kind of adventure," Blagden hastened to explain. "I mean the 'New Arabian Nights' sort of thing. We'll meet princesses and potentates and you may take my word for it that it won't be long before we're on the trail of some real money. We'll get back all we've lost and more too."

He spoke persuasively, but Mills remained unconvinced. "Oh, it's easy enough," he objected, "to talk like that in here, with the lights and the music and a couple of glasses of champagne under your belt. But nothing will really happen. We'll go out of this place and walk peacefully home again, and in the morning we'll wake up and laugh at ourselves. I only wish your dreams would come true, Blagden, but they won't; they're all moonshine. The only real thing is that we're broke."

But Blagden, always at his best under fire, rallied vigorously to the support of his theory. "Nonsense," he cried, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. One minute you claim to be a fighter and the next you're ready to quit cold. Why, the trouble with you--the trouble with all three of us--and the reason we think there's no romance left in the world is simply that we've gone stale--stale from sitting over the ticker day after day, without a thought of anything else on earth except the ups and downs of the market. I would gamble my last cent that there's waiting for us, right here in this city, adventure enough to fill a thousand books; adventures of riches and of poverty, of romance and reality, of battle and murder and sudden death. Here's the test. What day is this? Tuesday. Friday night, at nine o'clock, we'll meet in my rooms and compare notes. We'll all three try our best in the meantime and if by Friday no one of us has had an adventure worthy of the name, no one of us has chanced on the slightest idea, the faintest clue, that spells money, then I'll admit that I'm wrong and that Tubby's right. Now then, you fat guzzler, isn't that fair?"

"Oh, sure, that's fair enough," Mills was forced to agree, "but I don't believe--"

He stopped abruptly, gazing straight before him, and then, under his breath, he murmured, "Great Heavens, what a peach!"

The girl who had entered the café and taken a seat at a table not far from their own surely merited his praise. She was tall and slender, faultlessly gowned in black, and her face, under the broad picture hat, was of exceptional beauty, yet with an expression of mingled indifference and assurance that bespoke a plentiful knowledge of the world. She gave her order, began leisurely to remove her gloves, and presently, as she glanced about the room, Atherton perceived, to his surprise, that her eyes remained fixed upon their table with a singular intentness. Nor was he the only one to notice this, for immediately Mills observed, "By Jove, one of us seems to have made a hit. Do you know her, Atherton?"

Atherton shook his head. "No, I haven't the pleasure," he answered. And as the girl's eyes were suddenly averted, he added, "There was something, though, about our table, that seemed to attract her. And reasoning by the process of elimination, I conclude that it must be Blagden."

"You flatter me," Blagden calmly rejoined. "Just my luck, though, to be seated with my back to the lady. Is she really so charming?"

"Charming?" Mills echoed fervently, in a tone which answered Blagden's question in ardent affirmative. And Atherton supplemented, "Yes, if anybody happens to fancy that particular type, I should almost say that she is as pretty a woman as I ever saw in my life."

"Why, this is wonderful!" cried Blagden. "This calls for personal investigation. I don't suppose I can deliberately turn around and stare, but we might as well be going, anyway, and I must see her, if only as we depart."

They rose, and as they started to leave the table, Atherton noticed that the girl's eyes were again turned in their direction, and almost simultaneously was aware of a smothered ejaculation from Blagden. "So you know her?" he whispered.

Blagden did not answer directly. "Just a moment," he muttered, "I'll be right back." And walking swiftly over to the table, he exchanged a few brief words with its occupant, and then rejoined his companions, his face eager and expectant.

"I'll see you fellows later," he hurriedly explained; adding hastily, "What do you think of my theories now. Didn't I tell you this was the city of adventures. And mine is going to begin right here."

Mills grinned. "You always were a lucky devil," he cried enviously. "Well, all I can say is that if this is the form our adventures are going to take, they can't come too fast for me." And he and Atherton walked slowly in the direction of the door, while Blagden turned and made his way toward the girl who awaited him.

CHAPTER VII

[The Adventure of Blagden]

"It was two years ago," began Blagden, "on the beach at Trouville. I shall never forget it. The sea and the sky were blue; the sands were silver; and you were a marvelous mermaid, in gold and crimson, basking on the shore. When I saw you, I felt such emotion that I began at once repeating whole stanzas of Swinburne, appropriate to the occasion, and rivalling the day in warmth. I hoped--"

But she interrupted him. "It is pathetic," she said, "that a memory so tenderly poetical should be so much at fault. I am grieved for myself; I thought I had made a more lasting impression."

"But my memory," he protested, "is not at fault. I remember perfectly. It was a wonderful costume, almost worthy of its wearer. It was gold, pale gold--"

"Oh, stupid man!" she cried, "we are not talking of costumes; what do they matter? We are talking of our first meeting, and that was not at Trouville at all. Trouville, although delightful, came later. Our first meeting was at the races--"

"By Jove," he ejaculated, "you're right. So it was--Deauville races. And you were in the grandstand, in the very first row--"

"That's better," she exclaimed. "Your memory is improving. I was watching the horses parade before the opening race, and was suddenly smitten with the charms of a beautiful bay named Voyageur. Immediately I knew that I must bet five hundred francs on Voyageur. The time was short--"

"And so," he smiled, "you made appealing eyes at me--"

"No, no," she contradicted, "I did not. Or if I did, I was quite justified. You had been staring at me very rudely for some time."

"That is true," he admitted. "I couldn't help myself. But in any event, we became acquainted, and I placed the money on your favorite. I recall that distinctly. And I remember thinking, 'Poor girl; poor lovely girl; she will surely lose.' And then Voyageur--"

She in her turn took up the tale. "Oh, wasn't it splendid?" she cried. "A furlong from home, and we thought that he was beaten, and then, like a flash, up he came, out of the ruck, past the leaders, won under wraps, with his jockey sitting still, and both of us shrieking, 'Voyageur! Voyageur!' like mad."

"It was glorious," he agreed. "And after that do you remember the race for two-year-olds, and my theory that in an untried field the odds were all against the favorites winning? I suggested that we buy a ticket on every horse in the race; you assented, and the theory proved a magnificent success. We won a thousand francs--"

"And that night," she reminded him, "flushed with victory, we played roulette. It was I who invented the system then, and unlike yours, it cost us every cent we had made, and much more besides. Do you remember that?"

"Of course I do," he answered. "It was the old story; we were winners, but didn't know when to stop. But it was worth it; those were royal days."

"And then," she continued, "came our ventures in the market. The rise in rails that made us rich; and the cotton corner that beggared us. You haven't forgotten those?"

"Forgotten them?" he echoed. "Could I forget? Ah! what times those were!"

There was a pause. At length she said musingly, "Two years ago. Two long years. And how has Fortune treated you? Bountifully, I hope."

Blagden smiled. "I was just complaining to my friends," he said, "that she had deserted me. And now--she resumes her favors."

She bowed, half in earnest, half jestingly. "You are too kind," she answered, "but seriously, I am sorry if you have not prospered."

"To be candid," Blagden admitted, "I have not. But I am not discouraged. Being a Goddess, it is her privilege to be fickle; that, I suppose, is her real fascination. But tell me how the years have gone with you. Have you lived as you planned to live?"

She regarded him steadily, and without emotion. "Exactly," she answered, "as I planned."

He was silent, returning her gaze. "Well," he rejoined at length, "if it is a matter for congratulation, then I congratulate you. Is he rich?"

"Oh, very," she responded. "You need hardly have asked me that?"

"Quite true," he answered. "Forgive my stupidity. And are you happy?"

"Why--yes," she replied more doubtfully, "I suppose so. I have a great deal. I desire more."

"That," he said, "is the chief trouble with all of us. That, in fact, was the reason for my recent undoing. I risked a moderate capital to gain a fortune, and was wiped out. I lost everything--hook, line and sinker."

"I am so sorry," she answered. "Was it in stocks?"

"Next door to it," he responded. "It was January cotton. By every test in the world, by reasoning, by statistical information, by the opinion of the trade, by the advice of brokers, by every known method of determining values, January cotton was the greatest purchase in the universe. It had to go up, that was all there was to it. It was mathematically impossible for it to stay down. So I bought it, bought it up to my eyebrows; and so, I imagine, did every Tom, Dick and Harry in the Street. Result, a hundred and fifty point drop, swift and sudden as a hurricane, and when it was over, scattered heaps of financial corpses, of which I had the honor to be one. I had money, desired more; and got--what I deserved."

She sighed sympathetically. "I only wish," she murmured, more to herself than to him, "that I had known."

He regarded her with frank amazement. "What could you have done?" he queried. "Prevented me from losing?"

"Yes," she answered gravely, "I think that I could. I, of course, know nothing, but it happens that my friend is a great authority upon the markets. He is never wrong."

Blagden smiled indulgently. "Oh, I've heard of those fellows," he responded. "Don't think I'm rude, but there's no such thing in the world as a man who's never wrong on speculation. He simply doesn't exist."

"But you don't understand," she insisted. "He really knows."

"Pure coincidence," he retorted lightly. "I've known of such cases. He might hit it three times, four times, a dozen times, but nobody can be consistently right. It's humanly impossible."

"It was over six months ago," she rejoined with conviction, "that he told me to make my first trade. At my cottage he has had installed tickers for all three of the markets. If he is there between ten and three, he keeps close watch of them. And every so often he will say, 'Would you like some pin money?' And always I win, and never lose."

"Well," said Blagden lightly, "we won't quarrel over it. If you say it's so, it's so. But why do you say that you 'desire more?' I should consider you a very fortunate lady. If I could win every time I gambled, I don't think I'd require anything else."

"Oh, yes, you would," she promptly answered. "If you were only allowed to play every week or two, and in a very limited way, and under the direction of another person, would that satisfy you? Of course not. The point is here. I am only allowed to meddle with stocks as an amusement--a plaything. But I want to know how he does it. Then I should be satisfied, for I could make all the money I wished."

"But why so eager about money?" he queried. "You never used to be."

"In two years," she answered, "I have changed a great deal. I am older; I hope wiser. I know that youth fades, that life itself is brief. And before I die, I wish to realize a dream--a vision. I wish to have the finest pleasure yacht in the world and to voyage north, south, east, west, until I have seen all that there is to see upon this earth. Hence my desire for money."

"Now I understand," he replied. Then added, more lightly, "You say you 'want to know how he does it.' Does it appear to be a kind of magic? Does he make his profits in the same way that a conjuror extracts rabbits from a hat?"

His levity nettled her. "You are provincial," she retorted sharply. "You reason that because you have lost money in stocks, everyone must do so. Often it is foolish to believe too much; but sometimes one may believe too little."

He hastened to make amends. "I apologize," he said. "You are perfectly right. And I am really immensely interested in your story. You think, then, that he speculates with some sort of system?"

"I am sure of it," she answered with conviction, "and when I saw you here to-night, I suddenly remembered many things that you had told me about the market, and I wondered if you could not aid me now."

"If I may help," he assured her, "I am wholly at your service. Though I fear I am somewhat at a loss as to how or where to begin."

"And yet," she rejoined, "there is a starting-point. I am confident of it. Are you at liberty this evening?"

"Never more so," he answered.

"Then come with me," she said. "I have a taxi waiting." And Blagden, assisting her to put on her wraps, escorted her to the motor, which whirled them away from the city, mile after mile, until it finally stopped at a pretty cottage, far out in the country, isolated and half hidden in a miniature forest of trees, shrubs and flowers.

A trim maid answered her mistress's ring, then discreetly vanished. "Now," she said, "I will show you what I mean," and leading the way to the study on the floor above, she turned the switch and flooded the room with mellow light. Blagden looked about him with interest. As she had told him, over against the wall stood the three tickers, side by side, and beyond them a desk and a telephone switchboard. In spite of himself, Blagden was impressed. There was an orderliness, an indefinable businesslike touch to the room and its contents which seemed to make it evident that its owner was a man of affairs.

"Well," she queried, "do you believe me now?"

"Oh, it's not a question of belief--" he began, but she suddenly exclaimed, "Wait a moment; I forgot," and hurriedly leaving the room, she returned almost instantly with a small memorandum book in her hand. "Now," she said, "look at this."

Blagden took the book and scanned the entries with care. Here was fifty Reading bought at ninety-three and sold at ninety-eight; and here one hundred bales of May cotton sold at eighteen, fifty-six, and bought in at seventeen, fifty-two. A little further on were ten thousand bushels of December wheat bought at a dollar, fifty-four and closed out at a dollar, fifty-seven. Sometimes the gains were large, sometimes small, but invariably, as she had claimed, each transaction showed a profit. Blagden gazed, fascinated.

"Now," she said, "isn't it wonderful?"

"Wonderful," he echoed. "It's more than that. It's a miracle. If I had met you six months ago, where would I be to-day? I'd be rolling in it; I'd be worth a million."

Her face was as covetous as his. "You've been in the market for years," she said. "Haven't you any way of finding out?"

"I don't know," he answered slowly. "Did you tell me in the café you had a clew?"

She hesitated. "It sounds rather ridiculous," she answered, "but do you think it's possible that the time of day can have anything to do with the strength or weakness of stocks?"

He looked disappointed. "Oh, I've heard that talk down town," he responded. "There are as many theories of speculation as there are speculators. Everyone agrees that there's manipulation--flagrant manipulation--though of course this is indignantly denied by everybody connected with the Exchange. But how this manipulation is managed, no two men agree. I've heard what you hint at, that the future course of stocks is determined by their artificial strength or weakness at certain hours of the day; two o'clock, some people think is the significant time. Personally I never believed in it at all. Why do you ask?"

"Because," she answered, "when he stands here by the tickers, he is continually looking at his watch. I am not supposed to know this; in fact, between ten and three I am excluded from this room; but I have devised means of watching, and that is the peculiarity I have noticed; that, and the jotting down in his notebook of memoranda which he apparently copies from the tape."

Blagden looked puzzled. "I should be very slow," he said, "to believe anything of the kind. And I should think you could manage this affair without my aid. Considering your relations with this man, considering your very obvious attractions, I should think the stage was all set for a modern version of Merlin and Vivien."

She smiled a trifle bitterly. "I will confess to you," she answered, "that the same thing occurred to me. In fact, I attempted it; and failed utterly. Compared with this--" she indicated the tickers--"I am the proverbial dust beneath his feet."