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.

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.”

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.”

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