"Here, I say, you've made it out for thirty-eight thousand, said DeLancy, taking the check. "Ten thousand is profits, sure." "Here, I say, that's not right. I couldn't take that--no, never, Bojo!" "Shut up and be off with you!" said Bojo. "You don't think for a moment I'd use my friends and not see they got a share of the winnings, do you?" "It doesn't seem right," said DeLancy again. He gazed at the check, a prey to conflicting desires. "Rats!" "I don't feel as though I ought to." Bojo, watching his struggle with his conscience a moment, perceived the inherent weakness at the bottom of his nature, suddenly feeling a sense of distance intervening in the old friendship, sadly disillusioned. When he spoke, it was abruptly, as a superior: "Shut up, Fred--you're going to take it, and that's all! "How can I thank you? "Don't." He turned on his heel and went back to his room to hide the flash of scorn that came to his eyes. "Great Heavens," he thought, "is that the way men behave under great tests?" But all at once he added, "And myself?" For at the bottom there was an uneasy stirring feeling, awakened by the sudden incredulous laugh of his friends that had greeted his assertion of Drake's innocence, which was bringing him to a realization that he was to face a decision more profoundly significant to his own self-esteem than any he had yet confronted. "Thank heaven for one thing--nothing happened to Fred! That's settled. I have nothing on my conscience," he said with a sigh. The ten thousand he had added represented in a confused way a tribute to that conscience, to those others, unknown and unvisualized, whom unwittingly he might have caused to suffer. "Bojo!" "Hello! What is it?" He came out hurriedly at the sound of Granning's voice. "Roscy on the 'phone.... What?... Good God!" "What's that? What's happened?" he cried, as Fred came rushing out. "Forshay--committed suicide--this morning--at his club--cut his throat!" CHAPTER XVII PAYING THE PIPER--PLUS To go down to the office with the pall of disaster and tragedy over it, to face the accusatory looks of Hauk and Flaspoller with the dread consciousness of his own personal responsibility, was the hardest thing Bojo had ever had to do. Several times in the subway, filled with the Wall Street crowd excitedly discussing the sudden turn of yesterday, alarmed for the future, he had a wild impulse toward flight. Before him were the startling scare-heads of the _Morning Post_, the sole paper to have the story. DRAKE BUYS AND SELLS PITTSBURGH AND NEW ORLEANS SECURED CONTROL AT 6 MONDAY. SOLD AT MIDNIGHT. PROFIT IN MILLIONS. BROKERS HARD HIT. THREE FIRMS SUSPEND. CLIMAX OF DRAMATIC DAY. He saw only dimly what every one else was poring over frantically. He was reading over for the twentieth time the ugly story of Forshay's suicide. WELL-KNOWN BROKER ENDS LIFE AT CLUB W. O. FORSHAY THOUGHT TO HAVE BEEN CAUGHT IN DRAKE'S CLEAN UP