JACK DARCY'S business-tour, while it had not been productive of any great financial results, had restored his healthy mental equilibrium. He found other firms were having it just as hard, and that the country was still overrun with men willing to work for any wages. Prices were certainly falling. All kinds of raw products were offered at the very lowest figure; and, labor being so cheap, manufactured goods must perforce be low. Men were not now counting on a speedy return to good times and high prices: they began to admit that the latter were the outcome of extravagant speculation. They bought what they wanted, and no more. They gave no extensive credits, and now really appeared to be anxious to reach a permanent basis. "We shall have to sell most of our stock at cost," he said to Winston. "Lucky to get that, I suppose. And we shall come out about even--no profits for this six months. Still, we shall not run back, and that is something gained." "We can count on the new goods, I'm pretty sure," returned Winston. "I've had some inquiries, and sent samples. Some of the fancy overcoatings are to be duplicated. That looks like business." It did, indeed. Jack sat at his desk, ruminating upon it, and feeling as if at last they saw a light through the woods, when a step startled him, because it was not the kind of step usually heard through that hall, so he turned. It was Fred Lawrence, with a face of ashen pallor. Jack sprang up, dazed with the vision. "I was to come and tell you--Maverick has gone to Depford Beach--Miss Barry is very ill, and they have telegraphed for him. He left word--that we were to come." The voice had a strained, unnatural sound; and the eyes looked like those that have wept out a passionate sorrow, and are dry from despair. "Ill--Miss Barry--not Sylvie?" Could he speak of her in that calm tone? A passion of rage swelled in Fred's heart, and flushed his face. Only a moment, for the great throb of thankfulness that it was _not_ Sylvie restored him. "It is Miss Barry. You will go?" The tone had that peculiar, wandering cadence, as if somehow the soul had dropped out of it. "Certainly," and Jack sprang up, puzzled by something quite intangible in Fred's demeanor. "There are just twenty minutes to catch this train. The eight-ten does not stop at Depford, you know." "True: I will just speak to Winston"-- "I will meet you at the station," returned Fred hurriedly, turning away.