Montague said nothing.

“And suppose he does what he promised?” continued the other.  “He has done it before—­but am I to be one of Dan Waterman’s lackeys?”

There was a silence.  “Like John Lawrence,” continued Ryder, in a low voice.  “Have you heard of Lawrence?  He was a banker—­one of the oldest in the city.  And Waterman gave him an order, and he defied him.  Then he broke him; took away every dollar he owned.  And the man came to him on his knees.  ‘I’ve taught you who is your master,’ said Waterman.  ‘Now here’s your money.’  And now Lawrence fawns on him, and he’s got rich and fat.  But all his bank exists for is to lend money when Waterman is floating a merger, and call it in when he is buying.”

Montague could think of nothing to reply to that.

“Mr. Ryder,” he began at last, “I cannot be of much use to you now, because I haven’t the facts.  All I can tell you is that I am at your disposal.  I will give you my best efforts, if you will let me.  That is all I can say.”

And Ryder looked up, the light shining on his white, wan face.  “Thank you, Mr. Montague, he said.  “It is very good of you.  It is a help, at least, to hear a word of sympathy.  I—­I will let you know—­”

“All right,” said Montague, rising.  He put out his hand, and Ryder took it tremblingly.  “Thank you,” he said again.

And the other turned and went out.  He went down the great staircase by himself.  At the foot he passed the butler, carrying a tray with some coffee.

He stopped the man.  “Mr. Ryder ought not to be left alone,” he said.  “He should have his physician.”

“Yes, sir,” began the other, and then stopped short.  From the floor above a pistol shot rang out and echoed through the house.

“Oh, my God!” gasped the butler, staggering backward.

He half dropped and half set the tray upon a chair, and ran wildly up the steps.  Montague stood for a moment or two as if turned to stone.  He saw another servant run out of the dining-room and up the stairs.  Then, with a sudden impulse, he turned and went to the door.

“I can be of no use,” he thought to himself; “I should only drag Lucy’s name into it.”  And he opened the door, and went quietly down the steps.

In the newspapers the next morning he read that Stanley Ryder had shot himself in the body, and was dying.

And that same morning the newspapers in Denver, Colorado, told of the suicide of a mysterious woman, a stranger, who had gone to a room in one of the hotels and taken poison.  She was very beautiful; it was surmised that she must be an actress.  But she had left not a scrap of paper or a clew of any sort by which she could be identified.  The newspapers printed her photograph; but Montague did not see the Denver newspapers, and so to the day of his death he never knew what had been the fate of Lucy Dupree.