In the crash on the Street which had broken the cotton ring and had brought a comparatively young and hitherto unknown man into prominence, Bartlett had lost more than he cared to think about. Though his name had not appeared, he had been heavily involved. The ring had needed but a week, a day, more to bring it to perfection, then in a night, from whence hardly a soul knew, having worked quietly, steadily, persistently, this unforeseen factor had arisen and defeat stared the ring in the face. Another week would bring complete collapse unless this William Hargrave Batchelor could be suppressed. They had tried to see him, but he would not be seen. Clearly he had no price, preferring to fight to a finish, which was an admirable quality in one so young, but hardly to be desired in an opponent who unfortunately had every chance to win. Voluntarily, he would not leave the fight, but if he could be suppressed? The following Saturday was the crucial time. If he did not return until the day after? Bartlett had left the city late the previous afternoon to spend Sunday with Billy, away from the heat and worry of the scene of battle, and here was William Hargrave Batchelor, apparently doing the same thing. Clearly it was a dispensation of Providence. There was Billy, and after all William Hargrave Batchelor was young and human. He had probably never known girls like Billy before, or dined with them as equals. He certainly had made no attempt to hide his admiration for this particular one. Bartlett chatted gaily with Henrietta and watched the two opposite, trying to decide if it would be possible to kidnap the young man for a week, take him farther into the country, get him away from Wall Street at any cost. Were Billy’s charms equal to the attempt? William Hargrave Batchelor was said to be a cold, hard-headed youth, who had risen by sheer grit and determination to the place he now held, riding rough-shod over his own and every one else’s desires and pleasures. A calm, imperturbable young man, with cruel keen eyes, the papers described him. Watching him across the table, Bartlett decided that his square jaw and thin mouth fitted the description fairly well, but that the eyes were a complete contradiction. They were neither keen nor cruel, but soft and mild and sleepy. The whole face was careless, indifferent, and if it were not for the jaw, Bartlett would have hardly believed it possible that Batchelor was sitting opposite him. His own jaw snapped and he swore to himself that he would keep him for a week, either through Billy or otherwise. So strong is the power of suggestion, it did not enter his head to question the youth’s identity.