But Francis was not at his house at eight next morning to meet Charley Tippery. It had been a night in which official Washington had not slept, and the night-wires had carried the news out over the land that the United States, though not at war, had declared its moratorium. Wakened out of his bed at seven by Bascom in person, who brought the news, Francis had accompanied him down town. The moratorium had given them hope, and there was much to do. Charles Tippery, however, was not the first to arrive at the Riverside Drive palace. A few minutes before eight, Parker was very much disturbed and perturbed when Henry and Leoncia, much the worse for sunburn and travel-stain, brushed past the second butler who had opened the door. “It’s no use you’re coming in this way,” Parker assured them. “Mr. Morgan is not at home.” “Where’s he gone?” Henry demanded, shifting the suit-case he carried to the other hand. “We’ve got to see him _pronto_, and I’ll have you know that _pronto_ means quick. And who in hell are you?” “I am Mr. Morgan’s confidential valet,” Parker answered solemnly. “And who are you?” “My name’s Morgan,” Henry answered shortly, looking about in quest of something, striding to the library, glancing in, and discovering the telephones. “Where’s Francis? With what number can I call him up?” “Mr. Morgan left express instructions that nobody was to telephone him except on important business.” “Well, my business is important. What’s the number?” “Mr. Morgan is very busy to-day,” Parker reiterated stubbornly. “He’s in a pretty bad way, eh?” Henry quizzed. The valet’s face remained expressionless. “Looks as though he was going to be cleaned out to-day, eh?” Parker’s face betrayed neither emotion nor intelligence. “For a second time I tell you he is very busy——” he began. “Hell’s bells!” Henry interrupted. “It’s no secret. The market’s got him where the hair is short. Everybody knows that. A lot of it was in the morning papers. Now come across, Mr. Confidential Valet. I want his number. I’ve got important business with him myself.” But Parker remained obdurate. “What’s his lawyer’s name? Or the name of his agent? Or of any of his representatives?” Parker shook his head. “If you will tell me the nature of your business with him,” the valet essayed. Henry dropped the suit-case and made as if about to leap upon the other and shake Francis’ number out of him. But Leoncia intervened. “Tell him,” she said. “Tell him!” Henry shouted, accepting her suggestion. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show him.—Here, come on, you.” He strode into the library, swung the suit-case on the reading table, and began opening it. “Listen to me, Mr. Confidential Valet. Our business is the real business. We’re going to save Francis Morgan. We’re going to pull him out of the hole. We’ve got millions for him, right here inside of this thing——”