“Does I know--what are yer givin' us?” said the boy with infinite scorn in his voice. “A quarter,” I returned with a laugh, tossing him the coin. “Wait a minute.” “Yer ain't bad stuff,” said the boy with a grin. I tore open the envelope and read on the sheet that came from it: “Sell everything you bought--never mind the price. Other orders off. D. K.” I gasped with amazement. Had Doddridge Knapp gone mad? To sell twelve thousand five hundred shares of Omega was sure to smash the market, and the half-million dollars that had been put into them would probably shrink by two hundred thousand or more if the order was carried out. I read the note again. Then a suspicion large enough to overshadow the universe grew up in my brain. I recalled that Doddridge Knapp had given me a cipher with which he would communicate with me, and I believed, moreover, that he had no idea where I might be at the present moment. “It's all right, sonny,” I said. “Trot along.” “Where's yer letter?” asked the boy, loyally anxious to earn his quarter. “It won't have to go now,” I said coolly. I believed that the boy meant no harm to me, but I was not taking any risks. The boy sauntered down the hall, singing _My Name Is Hildebrandt Montrose_, and I was left gazing at the letter with a melancholy smile. “Well, I must look like a sucker if they think I can be taken in by a trick like that,” was my mental comment. I charged the scheme up to my snake-eyed friend and had a poorer opinion of his intelligence than I had hitherto entertained. Yet I was astonished that he should, even with the most hearty wish to bring about my downfall, contrive a plan that would inflict a heavy loss on his employer and possibly ruin him altogether. There was more beneath than I could fathom. My brain refused to work in the maze of contradictions and mysteries, plots and counterplots, in which I was involved. I took my way at last toward the market, and, hailing a boy to whom I intrusted my letter to Detective Coogan, walked briskly to Pine Street. CHAPTER XI THE DEN OF THE WOLF The street had changed its appearance in the two or three hours since I had made my way from the Exchange through the pallid, panic-stricken mob. There were still thousands of people between the corner of Montgomery Street and Leidesdorff, and the little alley itself was packed full of shouting, struggling traders. The thousands were broken into hundreds of groups, and men were noisily buying and selling, or discussing the chances of the market when the “big Board” should open once more. But there was an air of confidence, almost of buoyancy, in place of the gloom and terror that had lowered over the street at noon. Plainly the panic was over, and men were inspirited by a belief that “stocks were going up.”