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.”