is unloading Anti-People’s on to the Reinhart wing for Rogers and Rockefeller, and the rumour is getting in its work.  Even Barry Conant is growing a bit anxious.  The latest talk is that Reinhart is borrowing hundreds of millions on Anti-People’s, and that his loans are being called in all directions.  Do you know Reinhart is at his place in Virginia and cannot get here before to-morrow night?  If Bob breaks through Anti-People’s peg, it will be the worst crash yet.”

“All right, Fred,” I answered.  “I will go over to Bob’s right now.  I hate to do it, but there is no other hope.”

I dropped the receiver and started for Bob’s office.  As I went through his counting-room one of the clerks said, “They have just broken Anti-People’s to 90 on a bulletin that Tom Reinhart’s wife and only daughter have been killed in an automobile accident at their place in Virginia.  They first had it that Reinhart himself was killed.  That has been corrected, although the latest word is that he is prostrated.”

I rapped on Bob’s private-office door.  I felt the coming struggle as I heard his hoarse bellow, “Come in.”  He stood at the ticker, with the tape in one hand, while with the other he held the telephone receiver to his ear.  My God, what a picture for a stage!  His magnificent form was erect, his feet were as firmly planted as if he were made of bronze, his shoulders thrown back as if he were withstanding the rush of the Stock Exchange hordes, his eyes afire with a sullen, smouldering blaze, his jaw was set in a way that brought into terrible relief the new, hard lines of desperation that had recently come into his face.  His great chest was rising and falling as though he were engaged in a physical struggle; his perfect-fitting, heavy black Melton cutaway coat, thrown back from the chest, and a low, turned-down, white collar formed the setting for a throat and head that reminded one of a forest monarch at bay on the mountain crag awaiting the coming of the hounds and hunters.

I hesitated at the threshold to catch my breath, as I took in the terrific figure.  Had Bob Brownley been an enemy of mine I should have backed out in fear, and I do not confess to more than my fair share of cowardice.  Inwardly I thanked God that Bob was in his office instead of on the floor of the Exchange.  His whole appearance was frightful.  He showed in every line and lineament that he was a man who would hesitate at nothing, even at killing, if he should find a human obstacle in his road and his mind should suggest murder.  He was the personification of the most awful madness.  Even when he caught sight of me, he hardly moved, although my coming must have been a surprise.

“So it is you, Jim Randolph, is it?  What brings you here?” His voice was hoarse, but it had a metallic ring that went to my marrow.  Bob Brownley in all the years of our friendship had never spoken to me except in kind and loving regard.  I looked at him, stunned.  I must have shown how hurt I was.  But if he saw it, he gave no sign.  His eyes, looking straight into mine, changed no more than if he had been addressing his deadliest enemy.