"Think of it, think of it!" gasped Bates. "The old devil!"

"And then Duval chimed in, with a laugh, 'To put it in a nutshell,
gentlemen, we are going to smash Ryder and scare the President!'"

"Was the conference over?" asked Bates, after a moment's pause.

"All but the hand-shakes," said the other. "I didn't dare to stay
while they were moving about."

And Bates started suddenly to his feet. "Come!" he said. "We haven't
any time to waste. Our work isn't done yet, by a long sight."

He proceeded to untie the rope and coil it up. Rodney took the
blanket and put it on the bed, covering it with the spread, so as to
conceal the holes which had been worn by the rope. He wound up the
ball of cord, and dropped it into the bag with the rest of the
stuff. Bates took his hat and coat and started for the door.

"You will excuse us, Mr. Montague," he said. "You can understand
that this story will need a lot of work."

"I understand," said Montague.

"We'll try to thank you by and by," added the other. "Come around
after the paper goes to press, and we'll have a celebration."






CHAPTER XX





They went out; and Montague waited a minute or two, to give them a
chance to get out of the way, and then he rang the elevator bell and
entered the car.

It stopped again at the next floor, and he gave a start of
excitement. As the door opened, he saw a group of men, with Duval,
Ward, and General Prentice among them. He moved behind the elevator
man, so that none of them should notice him.

Montague had caught one glimpse of the face of General Prentice. It
was deathly pale. The General said not a word to anyone, but went
out into the corridor. The other hesitated for a moment, then, with
a sudden resolution, he turned and followed. As his friend passed
out of the door, he stepped up beside him.

"Good evening, General," he said. The General turned and stared at
him, half in a daze.

"Oh, Montague!" he said. "How are you?"

"Very well," said Montague.

In the street outside, among a group of half a dozen automobiles, he
recognised the General's limousine car.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Home," was the reply.

"I'll ride with you, if you like," said Montague. "I've something to
say to you."

"All right," said the General. He could not very well have refused,
for Montague had taken him by the arm and started toward the car; he
did not intend to be put off.

He helped the General in, got in himself, and shut to the door
behind him. Prentice sat staring in front of him, still half in a
daze.

Montague watched him for a minute or so. Then suddenly he leaned
toward him, and said, "General, why do you let them persuade you to
do it?"

"Hey?" said the other.

"I say," repeated Montague, "why do you let them persuade you?"

The other turned and stared at him, with a startled look in his
eyes.

"I know all about what has happened," said Montague. "I know what
went on at that conference."

"What do you mean?" gasped the General.

"I know what they made you promise to do. They are going to wreck
the Gotham Trust Company."

The General was dumfounded. "Why!" he gasped. "How? Who told you?
How could you--"

Montague had to wait a minute or two until his friend had got over
his dismay.

"I cannot help it," he burst out, finally. "What can I do?"

"You can refuse to play their game!" exclaimed Montague.

"But don't you suppose that they would do it just the same? And how
long do you suppose that I would last, if I refused them?"

"But think of what it means!" cried Montague. "Think of the ruin!
You will bring everything about your head."

"I know, I know!" cried the General, in a voice of anguish. "Don't
think that I haven't realised it--don't think that I haven't fought
against it! But I am helpless, utterly helpless."

He turned upon Montague, and caught his sleeve with a trembling
hand. "I never thought that I would live to face such an hour," he
exclaimed. "To despise myself--to be despised by all the world! To
be browbeaten, and insulted, and dragged about--"

The old man paused, choking with excess of emotion. "Look at me!" he
cried, with sudden vehemence. "Look at me! You think that I am a
man, a person of influence in the community, the head of a great
institution in which thousands of people have faith. But I am
nothing of the kind. I am a puppet--I am a sham--I am a disgrace to
myself and to the name I bear!"

And suddenly he clasped his hands over his face, and bowed his head,
so that Montague should not see his grief.

There was a long silence. Montague was dumb with horror. He felt
that his mere presence was an outrage.

Finally the General looked up again. He clenched his hand, and
mastered himself.

"I have chosen my part," he said. "I must play it through. What I
feel about it makes no difference."

Montague again said nothing.

"I have no right to inflict my grief upon you," the General
continued. "I have no right to try to excuse myself. There is no
turning back now. I am Dan Waterman's man, and I do his bidding."

"But how can you have got into such a position?" asked Montague.

"A friend of mine organised the Trust Company of the Republic. He
asked me to become president, because I had a name that would be
useful to him. I accepted--he was a man I knew I could trust. I
managed the business properly, and it prospered; and then, three
years ago, the control was bought by other men. That was when the
crisis came. I should have resigned. But I had my family to think
of; I had friends who were involved; I had interests that I could
not leave. And I stayed--and that is all. I found that I had stayed
to be a puppet, a figurehead. And now it is too late."

"But can't you withdraw now?" asked Montague.

"Now?" echoed the General. "Now, in the most critical moment, when
all my friends are hanging upon me? There is nothing that my enemies
would like better, for they could lay all their sins at my door.
They would class me with Stewart and Ryder."

"I see," said Montague, in a low voice.

"And now the crisis comes, and I find out who my real master is. I
am told to do this, and do that, and I do it. There are no threats;
I understand without any. Oh, my God, Mr. Montague, if I should tell
you of some of the things that I have seen in this city--of the
indignities that I have seen heaped upon men, of the deeds to which
I have seen them driven. Men whom you think of as the most
honourable in the community--men who have grown grey in the service
of the public! It is too brutal, too horrible for words!"

There was a long silence.

"And there is nothing you can do?" asked Montague.

"Nothing," he answered.

"Tell me, General, is your institution sound?"

"Perfectly sound."

"And you have done nothing improper?"

"Nothing."

"Then why should you fear Waterman?"

"Why?" exclaimed the General. "Because I am liable for eighty per
cent of my deposits, and I have only five per cent of reserves."

"I see!" said Montague.

"It is a choice between Stanley Ryder and myself," added the other.
"And Stanley Ryder will have to fight his own battle."

There was nothing more said. Each of the men sat buried in his own
thoughts, and the only sound was the hum of the automobile as it
sped up Broadway.

Montague was working out another course of action. He moved to
another seat in the car where he could see the numbers upon the
street lamps as they flashed by; and at last he touched the General
upon the knee. "I will leave you at the next corner," he said.

The General pressed the button which signalled his chauffeur, and
the car drew up at the curb. Montague descended.

"Good night, General," he said.

"Good night," said the other, in a faint voice. He did not offer to
take Montague's hand. The latter closed the door of the car, and it
sped away up the street.

Then he crossed over and went down to the River drive, and entered
Lucy's apartment house.

"Is Mrs. Taylor in?" he asked of the clerk.

"I'll see," said the man. Montague gave his name and added, "Tell
her it is very important."

Lucy came to the door herself, clad in an evening gown.

One glance at his haggard face was enough to tell her that something
was wrong. "What is it, Allan?" she cried.

He hung up his hat and coat, and went into the drawing-room.

"What is it, Allan?" she cried again.

"Lucy, do you know where Stanley Ryder is?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, and added quickly, "Oh! it's some bad news!"

"It is," said he. "He must be found at once."

She stared at him for a moment, hesitating; then, her anxiety
overcoming every other emotion, she said, "He is in the next room."

"Call him," said Montague.

Lucy ran to the door. "Come in. Quickly!" she called, and Ryder
appeared.

Montague saw that he was very pale; and there was nothing left of
his air of aristocratic serenity.

"Mr. Ryder," he began, "I have just come into possession of some
news which concerns you very closely. I felt that you ought to know.
There is to be a directors' meeting to-morrow morning, at which it
is to be decided that the bank which clears for the Gotham Trust
Company will discontinue to do it."

Ryder started as if he had been shot; his face turned grey. There
was no sound except a faint cry of fright from Lucy.

"My information is quite positive," continued Montague. "It has been
determined to wreck your institution!"

Ryder caught at a chair to support himself. "Who? Who?" he
stammered.

"It is Duval and Waterman," said Montague.

"Dan Waterman!" It was Lucy who spoke.

Montague turned to look at her, and saw her eyes, wide open with
terror.

"Yes, Lucy," he said.

"Oh, oh!" she gasped, choking; then suddenly she cried wildly, "Tell
me! I don't understand--what does it mean?"

"It means that I am ruined," exclaimed Ryder.

"Ruined?" she echoed.

"Absolutely!" he said. "They've got me! I knew they were after me,
but I didn't think they'd dare!"

He ended with a furious imprecation; but Montague had kept his eyes
fixed upon Lucy. It was her suffering that he cared about.

He heard her whisper, under her breath, "It's for me!" And then
again, "It's for me!"

"Lucy," he began; but suddenly she put up her hand, and rushed
toward him.

"Hush! he doesn't know!" she panted breathlessly. "I haven't told
him."

And then she turned toward Ryder again. "Oh, surely there must be
some way," she cried, wildly. "Surely--"

Ryder had sunk down in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"Ruined!" he exclaimed. "Utterly ruined! I won't have a dollar left
in the world."

"No, no," cried Lucy, "it cannot be!" And she put her hands to her
forehead, striving to think. "It must be stopped. I'll go and see
him. I'll plead with him."

"You must not, Lucy!" cried Montague, starting toward her.

But again she whirled upon him. "Not a word!" she whispered, with
fierce intensity. "Not a word!"

And she rushed into the next room, and half a minute later came back
with her hat and wrap.

"Allan," she said, "tell them to call me a cab!"

He tried to protest again; but she would not hear him. "You can ride
with me," she said. "You can talk then. Call me a cab! Please--save
me that trouble."

He gave the message: and Lucy, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the
room, twisting her hands together nervously.

"Now, Allan, go downstairs," she said; "wait for me there." And
after another glance at the broken figure of Ryder, he took his hat
and coat and obeyed.

Montague spent his time pacing back and forth in the entrance-hall.
The cab arrived, and a minute later Lucy appeared, wearing a heavy
veil. She went straight to the vehicle, and sprang in, and Montague
followed. She gave the driver the address of Waterman's great marble
palace over by the park; and the cab started.

Then suddenly she turned upon Montague, speaking swiftly and
intensely.

"I know what you are going to say," she cried. "But you must spare
me--and you must spare yourself. I am sorry that you should have to
know this--God knows that I could not help it! But it cannot be
undone. And there is no other way out of it. I must go to him, and
try to save Ryder!"

"Lucy," he began, "listen to me--"

"I don't want to listen to you," she cried wildly--almost
hysterically. "I cannot bear to be argued with. It is too hard for
me as it is!"

"But think of the practical side of it!" he cried. "Do you imagine
that you can stop this huge machine that Waterman has set in
motion?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" she exclaimed, choking back a sob. "I
can only do what I can. If he has any spark of feeling in him--I'll
get down on my knees to him, I will beg him--"

"But, Lucy! think of what you are doing. You go there to his house
at night! You put yourself into his power!"

"I don't care, Allan--I am not afraid of him. I have thought about
myself too long. Now I must think about the man I love."

Montague did not answer, for a moment. "Lucy," he said at last,
"will you tell me how you have thought of yourself in one single
thing?"

"Yes, yes--I will!" she cried, vehemently. "I have known all along
that Waterman was following me. I have been haunted by the thought
of him--I have felt his power in everything that has befallen us.
And I have never once told Ryder of his peril!"

"That was more a kindness to him--" began the other.

"No, no!" panted Lucy; and she caught his coat sleeve in her
trembling hands. "You see, you see--you cannot even imagine it of
me! I kept it a secret--because I was afraid!"

"Afraid?" he echoed.

"I was afraid that Ryder would leave me! I was afraid that he would
give me up! And I loved him too much!--Now," she rushed on--"you
see what kind of a person I have been! And I can sit here, and tell
you that! Is there anything that can make me ashamed after that? Is
there anything that can degrade me after that? And what is there
left for me to do but go to Waterman and try to undo what I have
done?"

Montague was speechless, before the agony of her humiliation.

"You see!" she whispered.

"Lucy," he began, protesting.

But suddenly she caught him by the arm. "Allan," she whispered, "I
know that you have to try to stop me. But it is no use, and I must
do it! And I cannot bear to hear you--it makes it too hard for me.
My course is chosen, and nothing in the world can turn me; and I
want you to go away and leave me. I want you to go--right now! I am
not afraid of Waterman; I am not afraid of anything that he can do.
I am only afraid of you, and your unhappiness. I want you to leave
me to my fate! I want you to stop thinking about me!"

"I cannot do it, Lucy," he said.

She reached up and pulled the signal cord; and the cab came to a
halt.

"I want you to get out, Allan!" she cried wildly. "Please get out,
and go away."

He started to protest again; but she pushed him away in frenzy. "Go,
go!" she cried; and half dazed, and scarcely realising what he did,
he gave way to her and stepped out into the street.

"Drive!" she called to the man, and shut the door; and Montague
found himself standing on a driveway in the park, with the lights of
the cab disappearing around a turn.






CHAPTER XXI





Montague started to walk. He had no idea where he went; his mind was
in a whirl, and he was lost to everything about him. He must have
spent a couple of hours wandering about the park and the streets of
the city; when at last he stopped and looked about him, he was on a
lighted thoroughfare, and a big clock in front of a jewellery store
was pointing to the hour of two.

He looked around. Immediately across the street was a building which
he recognised as the office of the Express; and in a flash he
thought of Bates. "Come in after the paper has gone to press," the
latter had said.

He went in and entered the elevator.

"I want to see Mr. Bates, a reporter," he said.

"City-room," said the elevator man; "eleventh floor."

Montague confronted a very cross and sleepy-looking office-boy. "Is
Mr. Bates in?" he asked.

"I dunno," said the boy, and slowly let himself down from the table
upon which he had been sitting. Montague produced a card, and the
boy disappeared. "This way," he said, when he returned; and Montague
found himself in a huge room, crowded with desks and chairs.
Everything was in confusion; the floor was literally buried out of
sight in paper.

Montague observed that there were only about a dozen men in the
room; and several of these were putting on their coats. "There he
is, over there," said the office-boy.

He looked and saw Bates sitting at a desk, with his head buried in
his arms. "Tired," he thought to himself.

"Hello, Bates," he said; then, as the other looked up, he gave a
start of dismay.

"What's the matter?" he cried.

It was half a minute before Bates replied. His voice was husky.
"They sold me out," he whispered.

"What!" gasped the other.

"They sold me out!" repeated Bates, and struck the table in front of
him. "Cut out the story, by God! Did me out of my scoop!

"Look at that, sir," he added, and shoved toward Montague a double
column of newspaper proofs, with a huge head-line, "Gotham Trust
Company to be Wrecked," and the words scrawled across in blue
pencil, "Killed by orders from the office."

Montague could scarcely find words to reply. He drew up a chair and
sat down. "Tell me about it," he said.

"There's nothing much to tell," said Bates. "They sold me out. They
wouldn't print it."

"But why didn't you take it elsewhere?" asked the other.

"Too late," said Bates; "the scoundrels--they never even let me
know!" He poured out his rage in a string of curses.

Then he told Montague the story.

"I was in here at half-past ten," he said, "and I reported to the
managing editor. He was crazy with delight, and told me to go
ahead--front page, double column, and all the rest. So Rodney and I
set to work. He did the interview, and I did all the embroidery--oh,
my God, but it was a story! And it was read, and went through; and
then an hour or two ago, just when the forms were ready, in comes
old Hodges--he's one of the owners, you know--and begins nosing
round. 'What's this?' he cries, and reads the story; and then he
goes to the managing editor. They almost had a fight over it. 'No
paper that I am interested in shall ever print a story like that!'
says Hodges; and the managing editor threatens to resign, but he
can't budge him. The first thing I knew of it was when I got this
copy; and the paper had already gone to press."

"What do you suppose was the reason for it?" asked Montague, in
wonder.

"Reason?" echoed Bates. "The reason is Hodges; he's a crook. 'If we
publish that story,' he said,'the directors of the bank will never
meet, and we'll bear the onus of having wrecked the Gotham Trust
Company.' But that's all a bluff, and he knew it; we could prove
that that conference took place, if it ever came to a fight."

"You were quite safe, it seems to me," said Montague.

"Safe?" echoed Bates. "We had the greatest scoop that a newspaper
ever had in this country--if only the Express were a newspaper. But
Hodges isn't publishing the news, you see; he's serving his masters,
whoever they are. I knew that it meant trouble when he bought into
the Express. He used to be managing editor of the Gazette, you know;
and he made his fortune selling the policy of that paper--its
financial news is edited to this very hour in the offices of Wyman's
bankers, and I can prove it to anybody who wants me to. That's the
sort of proposition a man's up against; and what's the use of
gathering the news?"

And Bates rose up with an oath, kicking away the chair behind him.
"Come on," he said; "let's get out of here. I don't know that I'll
ever come back."

Montague spent another hour wandering about with Bates, listening to
his opinion of the newspapers of the Metropolis. Then, utterly
exhausted, he went home; but not to sleep. He sat in a chair for an
hour or two, his mind besieged by images of ruin and destruction. At
last he lay down, but he had not closed his eyes when daylight began
to stream into the room.

At eight o'clock he was up again and at the telephone. He called up
Lucy's apartment house.

"I want to speak to Mrs. Taylor," he said.

"She is not in," was the reply.

"Will you ring up the apartment?" asked Montague. "I will speak to
the maid."

"This is Mr. Montague," he said, when he heard the woman's voice.
"Where is Mrs. Taylor?"

"She has not come back, sir," was the reply.

Montague had some work before him that day which could not be put
off. Accordingly he bathed and shaved, and had some coffee in his
room, and then set out for his office. Even at that early hour there
were crowds in the financial district, and another day's crop of
rumours had begun to spring. He heard nothing about the Gotham Trust
Company; but when he left court at lunch time, the newsboys on the
street were shouting the announcement of the action of the bank
directors. Lucy had failed in her errand, then; the blow had fallen!

There was almost a panic on the Exchange that day, and the terror
and anxiety upon the faces of the people who thronged the financial
district were painful to see. But the courts did not suspend, even
on account of the Gotham Trust; and Montague had an important case
to argue. He came out on the street late in the afternoon, and
though it was after banking hours, he saw crowds in front of a
couple of the big trust companies, and he read in the papers that a
run upon the Gotham Trust had begun.

At his office he found a telegram from his brother Oliver, who was
still in the Adirondacks: "Money in Trust Company of the Republic.
Notify me of the slightest sign of trouble."

He replied that there was none; and, as he rode up in the subway, he
thought the problem over, and made up his own mind. He had a trifle
over sixty thousand dollars in Prentice's institution--more than
half of all he owned. He had Prentice's word for it that the Company
was in a sound condition, and he believed it. He made up his mind
that he would not be one of those to be stampeded, whatever might
happen.

He dined quietly at home with his mother; then he took his way up
town again to Lucy's apartment; for he was haunted by the thought of
her, and could not rest. He had read in the late evening papers that
Stanley Ryder had resigned from the Gotham Trust Company.

"Is Mrs. Taylor in?" he asked, and gave his name.

"Mrs. Taylor says will you please to wait, sir," was the reply. And
Montague sat down in the reception-room. A couple of minutes later,
the hall-boy brought him a note.

He opened it and read these words, in a trembling hand:--

"Dear Allan: It is good of you to try to help me, but I cannot bear
it. Please go away. I do not want you to think about me. Lucy."

Montague could read the agony between those lines; but there was
nothing he could do about it. He went over to Broadway, and started
to walk down town.

He felt that he must have someone to talk to, to take his mind off
these things. He thought of the Major, and went over to the club,
but the storm had routed out even the Major, it appeared. He was
just off to attend some conference, and had only time to shake hands
with Montague, and tell him to "trim sail."

Then he thought of Bates, and went down to the office of the
Express. He found Bates hard at work, seated at a table in his
shirt-sleeves, and with stacks of papers around him.

"I can always spare time for a chat," he said, as Montague offered
to go.

"I see you came back," observed the other.

"I'm like an old horse in a tread mill," answered Bates. "What else
is there for me to do?"

He leaned back in his chair, and put his thumbs in his armholes.
"Well," he remarked, "they made their killing."

"They did, indeed," said Montague.

"And they're not satisfied yet," exclaimed the other. "They're on
another trail!"

"What!" cried Montague.

"Listen," said Bates. "I went in to see David Ward about the action
of the Clearinghouse Committee; Gary--he's the Despatch man--was
with me. Ward talked for half an hour, as he always does; he told us
all about the gallant efforts which the bankers were making to stem
the tide, and he told us that the Trust Company of the Republic was
in danger and that an agreement had been made to try to save it.
Mind you, there's not been the least sign of trouble for the
company.' 'Shall we print that?' asked Gary. 'Surely,' said Ward.
'But it will make trouble,' said Gary. 'That's all right,' said
Ward. 'It's a fact. So print it.' Now what do you think of that?"

Montague sat rigid. "But I thought they had promised to protect
Prentice!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Bates, grimly; "and now they throw him down."

"Do you suppose Waterman knew that?"

"Why, of course; Ward is no more than one of his clerks."

"And will the Despatch print it, do you suppose?"

"I don't know why not," said the other. "I asked Gary if he was
going to put it in, and he said 'Yes.' 'It will make another panic,'
I said, and he answered, 'Panics are news.'"

Montague said nothing for a minute or two. Finally he remarked, "I
have good reason to believe that the Trust Company of the Republic
is perfectly sound."

"I have no doubt of it," was the reply.

"Then why--" He stopped.

Bates shrugged his shoulders. "Ask Waterman," he said. "It's some
quarrel or other; he wants to put the screws on somebody. Perhaps
it's simply that two trust companies will scare the President more
than one; or perhaps it's some stock he wants to break. I've heard
it said that he has seventy-five millions laid by to pick up
bargains with; and I shouldn't wonder if it was true."

There was a moment's pause. "And by the way," Bates added, "the Oil
Trust has made another haul! The Electric Manufacturing Company is
in trouble--that's a rival of one of their enterprises! Doesn't it
all fit together beautifully?"

Montague thought for a moment or two. "This is rather important news
to me," he said; "I've got money in the Trust Company of the
Republic. Do you suppose they are going to let it go down?"

"I talked it over with Rodney," the other replied. "He says Waterman
was quite explicit in his promises to see Prentice through. And
there's one thing you can say about old Dan--for all his villainies,
he never breaks his word. So I imagine he'll save it."

"But then, why give out this report?" exclaimed the lawyer.

"Don't you see?" said Bates. "He wants a chance to save it."

Montague's jaw fell. "Oh!" he said.

"It's as plain as the nose on your face," said Bates. "That story
will come out to-morrow morning, and everybody will say it was the
blunder of a newspaper reporter; and then Waterman will come forward
and do the rescue act. It'll be just like a play."

"It's taking a long chance," said Montague, and added, "I had
thought of telling Prentice, who's an intimate friend of mine; but I
don't suppose it will do him any good."

"Poor old Prentice can't help himself," was the reply. "All you can
do is to make him lose a night's sleep."

Montague went out, with a new set of problems to ponder. As he went
home, he passed the magnificent building of the Gotham Trust
Company, where there stood a long line of people who had prepared to
spend the night. All the afternoon a frantic mob had besieged the
doors, and millions of dollars had been withdrawn in a few hours.
Montague knew that by the time he got down town the next morning
there would be another such mob in front of the Trust Company of the
Republic; but he was determined to stand by his own resolve.
However, he had sent a telegram to Oliver, warning him to return at
once.

He went home and found there another letter from Lucy Dupree.

"Dear Allan," she wrote. "No doubt you have heard the news that
Ryder has been forced out of the Gotham Trust. But I have
accomplished part of my purpose--Waterman has promised that he will
put him on his feet again after this trouble is over. In the
meantime, I am told to go away. This is for the best; you will
remember that you yourself urged me to go. Ryder cannot see me,
because the newspaper reporters are following him so closely.

"I beg of you not to try to find me. I am hateful in my own sight,
and you will never see me again. There is one last thing that you
can do for me. Go to Stanley Ryder and offer him your help--I mean
your advice in straightening out his affairs. He has no friends now,
and he is in a desperate plight. Do this for me. Lucy."






CHAPTER XXII





At eight the next morning the train from the Adirondacks arrived,
and Montague was awakened by his brother at the telephone. "Have you
seen this morning's Despatch?" was Oliver's first word.

"I haven't seen it," said Montague; "but I know what's in it."

"About the Trust Company of the Republic?" asked Oliver.

"Yes," said the other. "I was told the story before I telegraphed
you."

"But my God, man," cried Oliver--"then why aren't you down town?"

"I'm going to let my money stay."

"What?"

"I believe that the institution is sound; and I am not going to
leave Prentice in the lurch. I telegraphed you, so that you could do
as you chose."

It was a moment or two before Oliver could find words to reply.

"Thanks!" he said. "You might have done a little more--sent somebody
down to keep a place in line for me. You're out of your mind, but
there's no time to talk about it now. Good-by." And so he rang off.

Montague dressed and had his breakfast; in the meantime he glanced
over a copy of the Despatch, where, in the account of the day's
events, he found the fatal statements about the Trust Company of the
Republic. It was very interesting to Montague to read these
newspapers and see the picture of events which they presented to the
public. They all told what they could not avoid telling--that is,
the events which were public matters; but they never by any chance
gave a hint of the reasons for the happenings--you would have
supposed that all these upheavals in the banking world were so many
thunderbolts which had fallen from the heavens above. And each day
they gave more of their space to insisting that the previous day's
misfortunes were the last--that by no chance could there be any more
thunderbolts to fall.

When he went down town, he rode one station farther than usual in
order to pass the Trust Company of the Republic. He found a line of
people extending halfway round the block, and in the minute that he
stood watching there were a score or more added to it. Police were
patrolling up and down--it was not many hours later that they were
compelled to adopt the expedient of issuing numbered tickets to
those who waited in the line.

Montague walked on toward the front, looking for his brother. But he
had not gone very far before he gave an exclamation of amazement. He
saw a short, stout, grey-haired figure, which he recognised, even by
its back. "Major Venable!" he gasped.

The Major whirled about. "Montague!" he exclaimed. "My God, you are
just in time to save my life!"

"What do you want?" asked the other.

"I want a chair!" gasped the Major, whose purple features seemed
about to burst with his unwonted exertions. "I've been standing here
for two hours. In another minute more I should have sat down on the
sidewalk."

"Where can I get a chair?" asked Montague, biting his tongue in
order to repress his amusement.

"Over on Broadway," said the Major. "Go into one of the stores, and
make somebody sell you one. Pay anything--I don't care."

So Montague went back, and entered a leather-goods store, where he
saw several cane-seated chairs. He was free to laugh then all he
pleased; and he explained the situation to one of the clerks, who
demurred at five dollars, but finally consented for ten dollars to
take the risk of displeasing his employer. For fifty cents more
Montague found a boy to carry it, and he returned in triumph to his
venerable friend.

"I never expected to see you in a position like this," he remarked.
"I thought you always knew things in advance."

"By the Lord, Montague!" muttered the other, "I've got a quarter of
a million in this place."

"I've got about one-fourth as much myself," said Montague.

"What!" cried the Major. "Then what are you doing?"

"I'm going to leave it in," said Montague. "I have reason to know
that that report in the Despatch is simply a blunder, and that the
institution is sound."

"But, man, there'll be a run on it!" sputtered the old gentleman.

"There will, if everybody behaves like you. You don't need your
quarter of a million to pay for your lunch, do you?"

The Major was too much amazed to find a reply.

"You put your money in a trust company," the other continued, "and
you know that it only keeps five per cent reserve, and is liable to
pay a hundred per cent of its deposits. How can you expect it to do
that?"

"I don't expect it," said the Major, grimly; "I expect to be among
the five per cent." And he cast his eye up the line, and added, "I
rather think I am."

Montague went on ahead, and found his brother, with only about a
score of people ahead of him. Apparently not many of the depositors
of the Trust Company read their newspapers before eight o'clock in
the morning.

"Do you want a chair, too?" asked Montague. "I just got one for the
Major."

"Is he here, too?" exclaimed Oliver. "Good Heavens! No, I don't want
a chair," he added, "I'll get through early. But, Allan, tell me--
what in the world is the matter? Do you really mean that your money
is still in here?"

"It's here," the other answered. "There's no use arguing about
it--come over to the office when you get your money."

"I got the train just by half a minute," said Oliver. "Poor Bertie
Stuyvesant didn't get up in time, and he's coming on a special--he's
got about three hundred thousand in here. It was to pay for his new
yacht."

"I guess some of the yacht-makers won't be quite so busy from now
on," remarked the other, as he moved away.

That afternoon he heard the story of how General Prentice, as a
director of the Gotham Trust, had voted that the institution should
not close its doors, and then, as president of the Trust Company of
the Republic, had sent over and cashed a check for a million
dollars. None of the newspapers printed that story, but it ran from
mouth to mouth, and was soon the jest of the whole city. Men said
that it was this act of treachery which had taken the heart out of
the Gotham Trust Company directors, and led to the closing of its
doors.

Such was the beginning of the panic as Montague saw it. It had all
worked out beautifully, according to the schedule. The stock market
was falling to pieces--some of the leading stocks were falling
several points between transactions, and Wyman and Hegan and the Oil
and Steel people were hammering the market and getting ready for the
killing. And at the same time, representatives of Waterman in
Washington were interviewing the President, and setting before him
the desperate plight of the Mississippi Steel Company. Already the
structure of the country's finances was tottering; and here was one
more big failure threatening. Realising the desperate situation, the
Steel Trust was willing to do its part to save the country--it would
take over the Mississippi Steel Company, provided only that the
Government would not interfere. The desired promise was given; and
so that last of Waterman's purposes was accomplished.

But there was one factor in the problem upon which few had reckoned,
and that was the vast public which furnished all the money for the
game--the people to whom dollars were not simply gamblers' chips,
but to whom they stood for the necessities of life; business men who
must have them to pay their clerks on Saturday afternoon;
working-men who needed them for rent and food; helpless widows and
orphans to whom they meant safety from starvation. These unhappy
people had no means of knowing that financial institutions, which
were perfectly sound and able to pay their depositors, might be
wrecked deliberately in a gamblers' game. When they heard that banks
were tottering, and were being besieged for money, they concluded
that there must be real danger--that the long-predicted crash must
be at hand. They descended upon Wall Street in hordes--the whole
financial district was packed with terrified crowds, and squads of
policemen rode through upon horseback in order to keep open the
streets.

"Somebody asked for a dollar," was the way one banker phrased it.
Wall Street had been doing business with pieces of paper; and now
someone asked for a dollar, and it was discovered that the dollar
had been mislaid.

It was an experience for which the captains of finance were not
entirely prepared; they had forgotten the public. It was like some
great convulsion of nature, which made mockery of all the powers of
men, and left the beholder dazed and terrified. In Wall Street men
stood as if in a valley, and saw far up above them the starting of
an avalanche; they stood fascinated with horror, and watched it
gathering headway; saw the clouds of dust rising up, and heard the
roar of it swelling, and realised that it was a matter of only a
second or two before it would be upon them and sweep them to
destruction.

The lines of people before the Gotham Trust and the Trust Company of
the Republic were now blocks in length; and every hour one heard of
runs upon new institutions. There were women wringing their hands
and crying in nervous excitement; there were old people, scarcely
able to totter; there were people who had risen from sick-beds, and
who stood all through the day and night, shivering in the keen
October winds.

Runs had begun on the savings banks also; over on the East Side the
alarm had reached the ignorant foreign population. It had spread
with the speed of lightning all over the country; already there were
reports of runs in other cities, and from thousands and tens of
thousands of banks in East and South and West came demands upon the
Metropolis for money. And there was no money anywhere.

And so the masters of the Banking Trust realised to their annoyance
that the monster which they had turned loose might get beyond their
control. Runs were beginning upon institutions in which they
themselves were concerned. In the face of madness such as this, even
the twenty-five per cent reserves of the national banks would not be
sufficient. The moving of the cotton and grain crops had taken
hundreds of millions from New York; and there was no money to be got
by any chance from abroad. Everywhere they turned, they faced this
appalling scarcity of money; nothing could be sold, no money could
be borrowed. The few who had succeeded in getting their cash were
renting safe-deposit boxes and hiding the actual coin.

And so, all their purposes having been accomplished, the bankers set
to work to stem the tide. Frantic telegrams were sent to Washington,
and the Secretary of the Treasury deposited six million dollars in
the national banks of the Metropolis, and then came on himself to
consult.

Men turned to Dan Waterman, who was everywhere recognised as the
master of the banking world. The rivalry of the different factions
ceased in the presence of this peril; and Waterman became suddenly a
king, with practically absolute control of the resources of every
bank in the city. Even the Government placed itself in his hands;
the Secretary of the Treasury became one of his clerks, and bank
presidents and financiers came crowding into his office like
panic-stricken children. Even the proudest and most defiant men,
like Wyman and Hegan, took his orders and listened humbly to his
tirades.

All these events were public history, and one might follow them day
by day in the newspapers. Waterman's earlier acts had been planned
and carried out in darkness. No one knew, no one had the faintest
suspicion. But now newspaper reporters attended the conferences and
trailed Waterman about wherever he went, and the public was invited
to the wonderful spectacle of this battle-worn veteran, rousing
himself for one last desperate campaign and saving the honour and
credit of the country.

The public hung upon his lightest word, praying for his success. The
Secretary of the Treasury sat in the Sub-Treasury building near his
office, and poured out the funds of the Government under his
direction. Thirty-two million dollars in all were thus placed with
the national banks; and from all these institutions Waterman drew
the funds which he poured into the vaults of the imperilled banks
and trust companies. It was a time when one man's peril was every
man's, and none might stand alone. And Waterman was a despot,
imperious and terrible. "I have taken care of my bank," said one
president; "and I intend to shut myself up in it and wait until the
storm is over." "If you do," Waterman retorted, "I will build a wall
around you, and you will never get out of it again!" And so the
banker contributed the necessary number of millions.

The fight centred around the imperilled Trust Company of the
Republic. It was recognised by everyone that if Prentice's
institution went down, it would mean defeat. Longer and longer grew
the line of waiting depositors; the vaults were nearly empty. The
cashiers adopted the expedient of paying very slowly--they would
take half an hour or more to investigate a single check; and thus
they kept going until more money arrived. The savings banks of the
city agreed unanimously to close their doors, availing themselves of
their legal right to demand sixty days before paying. The national
banks resorted to the expedient of paying with clearing-house
certificates. The newspapers preached confidence and cheered the
public--even the newsboys were silenced, so that their shrill cries
might no longer increase the public excitement. Groups of mounted
policemen swept up and down the streets, keeping the crowds upon the
move.

And so at last came the fateful Thursday, the climax of the panic. A
pall seemed to have fallen upon Wall Street. Men ran here and there,
bareheaded and pale with fright. Upon the floor of the Stock
Exchange men held their breath. The market was falling to pieces.
All sales had stopped; one might quote any price one chose, for it
was impossible to borrow a dollar. Interest rates had gone to one
hundred and fifty per cent to two hundred per cent; a man might have
offered a thousand per cent for a large sum and not obtained it. The
brokers stood about, gazing at each other in utter despair. Such an
hour had never before been known.

All this time the funds of the Government had been withheld from the
Exchange. The Government must not help the gamblers, everyone
insisted. But now had come the moment when it seemed that the
Exchange must be closed. Thousands of firms would be ruined, the
business of the country would be paralysed. There came word that the
Pittsburg Exchange had closed. So once more the terrified magnates
crowded into Waterman's office. Once more the funds of the
Government were poured into the banks; and from the banks they came
to Waterman; and within a few minutes after the crisis had
developed, the announcement was made that Dan Waterman would lend
twenty-five million dollars at ten per cent.

So the peril was averted. Brokers upon the floor wept for joy, and
cheers rang through all the Street. A mob of men gathered in front
of Waterman's office, singing a chorus of adulation.

All these events Montague followed day by day. He was passing
through Wall Street that Thursday afternoon, and he heard the crowds
singing. He turned away, bitter and sick at heart. Could a more
tragic piece of irony have been imagined than this--that the man,
who of all men had been responsible for this terrible calamity,
should be heralded before the whole country as the one who averted
it! Could there have been a more appalling illustration of the way
in which the masters of the Metropolis were wont to hoodwink its
blind and helpless population?

There was only one man to whom Montague could vent his feelings;
only one man besides himself who knew the real truth. Montague got
the habit, when he left his work, of stopping at the Express
building, and listening for a few minutes to the grumbling of Bates.

Bates would have each day's news fresh from the inside; not only the
things which would be printed on the morrow, but the things which
would never be printed anywhere. And he and Montague would feed the
fires of each other's rage. One day it would be one of the Express's
own editorials, in which it was pointed out that the intemperate
speeches and reckless policies of the President were now bearing
their natural fruit; another day it would be a letter from a
prominent clergyman, naming Waterman as the President's successor.

Men were beside themselves with wonder at the generosity of Waterman
in lending twenty-five millions at ten per cent. But it was not his
own money--it was the money of the national banks which he was
lending; and this was money which the national banks had got from
the Government, and for which they paid the Government no interest
at all. There was never any graft in the world so easy as the
national bank graft, declared Bates. These smooth gentlemen got the
people's money to build their institutions. They got the Government
to deposit money with them, and they paid the Government nothing,
and charged the people interest for it. They had the privilege of
issuing a few hundred millions of bank-notes, and they charged
interest for these and paid the Government nothing. And then, to cap
the climax, they used their profits to buy up the Government! They
filled the Treasury Department with their people, and when they got
into trouble, the Sub-Treasury was emptied into their vaults. And in
the face of all this, the people agitated for postal savings banks,
and couldn't get them. In other countries the people had banks where
they could put their money with absolute certainty; for no one had
ever known such a thing as a run upon a postal bank.

"Sometimes," said Bates, "it seems almost as if our people were
hypnotised. You saw all this life insurance scandal, Mr. Montague;
and there's one simple and obvious remedy for all the evils--if we
had Government life insurance, it could never fail, and there'd be
no surplus for Wall Street gamblers. It sounds almost incredible--
but do you know, I followed that agitation as I don't believe any
other man in this country followed it--and from first to last I
don't believe that one single suggestion of that remedy was ever
made in print!"

A startled look had come upon Montague's face as he listened. "I
don't believe I ever thought of it myself!" he exclaimed.

And Bates shrugged his shoulders. "You see!" he said. "So it goes."






CHAPTER XXIII





Montague had taken a couple of days to think over Lucy's last
request. It was a difficult commission; but he made up his mind at
last that he would make the attempt. He went up to Ryder's home and
presented his card.

"Mr. Ryder is very much occupied, sir--" began the butler,
apologetically.

"This is important," said Montague. "Take him the card, please." He
waited in the palatial entrance-hall, decorated with ceilings which
had been imported intact from old Italian palaces.

At last the butler returned. "Mr. Ryder says will you please see him
upstairs, sir?"

Montague entered the elevator, and was taken to Ryder's private
apartments. In the midst of the drawing-room was a great library
table, covered with a mass of papers; and in a chair in front of it
sat Ryder.

Montague had never seen such dreadful suffering upon a human
countenance. The exquisite man of fashion had grown old in a week.

"Mr. Ryder," he began, when they were alone, "I received a letter
from Mrs. Taylor, asking me to come to see you."

"I know," said Ryder. "It was like her; and it is very good of you."

"If there is any way that I can be of assistance," the other began.

But Ryder shook his head. "No," he said; "there is nothing."

"If I could give you my help in straightening out your own
affairs--"

"They are beyond all help," said Ryder. "I have nothing to begin
on--I have not a dollar in the world."

"That is hardly possible," objected Montague.

"It is literally true!" he exclaimed. "I have tried every plan--I
have been over the thing and over it, until I am almost out of my
mind." And he glanced about him at the confusion of papers, and
leaned his forehead in his hands in despair.

"Perhaps if a fresh mind were to take it up," suggested Montague.
"It is difficult to see how a man of your resources could be left
without anything--"

"Everything I have is mortgaged," said the other. "I have been
borrowing money right and left. I was counting on profits--I was
counting on increases in value. And now see--everything is wiped
out! There is not value enough left in anything to cover the loans."

"But surely, Mr. Ryder, this slump is merely temporary. Values must
be restored--"

"It will be years, it will be years! And in the meantime I shall be
forced to sell. They have wiped me out--they have destroyed me! I
have not even money to live on."

Montague sat for a few moments in thought. "Mrs. Taylor wrote me
that Waterman--" he began.

"I know, I know!" cried the other. "He had to tell her something, to
get what he wanted."

Montague said nothing.

"And suppose he does what he promised?" continued the other. "He has
done it before--but am I to be one of Dan Waterman's lackeys?"

There was a silence. "Like John Lawrence," continued Ryder, in a low
voice. "Have you heard of Lawrence? He was a banker--one of the
oldest in the city. And Waterman gave him an order, and he defied
him. Then he broke him; took away every dollar he owned. And the man
came to him on his knees. 'I've taught you who is your master,' said
Waterman. 'Now here's your money.' And now Lawrence fawns on him,
and he's got rich and fat. But all his bank exists for is to lend
money when Waterman is floating a merger, and call it in when he is
buying."

Montague could think of nothing to reply to that.

"Mr. Ryder," he began at last, "I cannot be of much use to you now,
because I haven't the facts. All I can tell you is that I am at your
disposal. I will give you my best efforts, if you will let me. That
is all I can say."