John wrote out the order and gave it to the cashier, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was now twenty-five minutes to twelve. He rushed to the telegraph-office with all the speed of which he was capable, but met only a blank look again from the chief operator. 'It has not come yet,' he said, shaking his head. Gradually despair began to descend on the waiting man. It was worse to miss everything now, than never to have had the hope of success. It was like hanging a man who had once been reprieved. He resumed his nervous pace up and down that chamber of torture. A quarter to twelve. He heard chimes ring somewhere. If the message did not come before they rang again, it would be for ever too late. Fourteen minutes--thirteen minutes--twelve minutes--eleven minutes--ten minutes to twelve, and yet, no-- 'Here you are!' shouted the operator in great glee, 'she's a-coming--it's all right--"John Kenyon, Ottawa."' Then he wrote as rapidly as the machine ticked out the message. 'There it is; now rush!' John needed no telling to rush. People had begun to notice him as the man who was doing nothing but running between the bank and the telegraph-office. It was seven minutes to twelve when he got to the bank. 'Is that despatch right?' he said, shoving it through the arched aperture. The clerk looked at it with provoking composure, and then compared it with some papers. 'For God's sake, hurry!' pleaded John. 'You have plenty of time,' said the cashier coolly, looking up at the clock and going on with his examination. 'Yes,' he added, 'that is right. Here is your certified cheque.' John clasped it, and bolted out of the bank as a burglar might have done. It was five minutes to twelve when he got to the steps that led to the rooms of Mr. Von Brent. Now all his excitement seemed to have deserted him. He was as cool and calm as if he had five days, instead of so many minutes, in which to make the payment. He mounted the steps quietly, walked along the passage, and knocked at the door of Von Brent's room. 'Come in!' was the shout that greeted him. He opened the door, glancing at the clock behind Von Brent's head as he did so. It stood at three minutes to twelve. Young Mr. Longworth was sitting there, with just a touch of pallor on his countenance, and there seemed to be an ominous glitter in his eyeglass. He said nothing, and John Kenyon completely ignored his presence. 'There is still some life left in my option, I believe?' he said to Von Brent, after nodding good-day to him. 'Very little, but perhaps it will serve. You have two minutes and a half,' said Von Brent. 'Are the papers ready?' inquired John. 'All ready, everything except putting in the names.' 'Very well, here is the money.' Von Brent looked at the certified cheque. 'That is perfectly right,' he said, 'the mine is yours.' Then he rose and stretched his hand across the table to Kenyon, who grasped it cordially.