“I came to assure you that I have not thought of withdrawing my deposits from this bank, Colonel.  You need have no uneasiness—­”

The door opened suddenly and one of the officials of the bank bolted inside, his face as white as death.  He started to speak before he saw Brewster, and then closed his lips despairingly.

“What is it, Mr. Moore?” asked Drew, as calmly as possible.  “Don’t mind Mr. Brewster.”

“Oglethorp wants to draw two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” said Moore in strained tones.

“Well, he can have it, can’t he?” asked the Colonel quietly.  Moore looked helplessly at the president of the bank, and his silence spoke more plainly than words.

“Brewster, it looks bad,” said the Colonel, turning abruptly to the young man.  The other banks are afraid of a run and we can’t count on much help from them.  Some of them have helped us and others have refused.  Now, I not only ask you to refrain from drawing out your deposit, but I want you to help us in this crucial moment.”  The Colonel looked twenty years older and his voice shook perceptibly.  Brewster’s pity went out to him in a flash.

“What can I do, Colonel Drew?” he cried.  “I’ll not take my money out, but I don’t know how I can be of further assistance to you.  Command me, sir.”

“You can restore absolute confidence, Monty, my dear boy, by increasing your deposits in our bank,” said the Colonel slowly, and as if dreading the fate of the suggestion.

“You mean, sir, that I can save the bank by drawing my money from other banks and putting it here?” asked Monty, slowly.  He was thinking harder and faster than he had ever thought in his life.  Could he afford to risk the loss of his entire fortune on the fate of this bank?  What would Swearengen Jones say if he deliberately deposited a vast amount of money in a tottering institution like the Bank of Manhattan Island?  It would be the maddest folly on his part if the bank went down.  There could be no mitigating circumstances in the eyes of either Jones or the world, if he swamped all of his money in this crisis.

“I beg of you, Monty, help us.”  The Colonel’s pride was gone.  “It means disgrace if we close our doors even for an hour; it means a stain that only years can remove.  You can restore confidence by a dozen strokes of your pen, and you can save us.”

He was Barbara’s father.  The proud old man was before him as a suppliant, no longer the cold man of the world.  Back to Brewster’s mind came the thought of his quarrel with Barbara and of her heartlessness.  A scratch of the pen, one way or the other, could change the life of Barbara Drew.  The two bankers stood by scarcely breathing.  From the outside came the shuffle of many feet and the muffled roll of voices.  Again the door to the private office opened and a clerk excitedly motioned for Mr. Moore to hurry to the front of the bank.  Moore paused irresolutely, his eyes on Brewster’s face.  The young man knew the time had come when he must help or deny them.