“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!”