Bartley Bradstone put on his hat and walked out of the room, telling the cabman to wait while he walked toward the bank. There he changed a check. The cashier did not, as usual, scoop out the money with a respectful smile, but took the check, apparently, into the manager’s room. He came out after a minute or two and changed the check. “We have not had your passbook for some weeks, sir,” he said, as he passed the money over. Bartley Bradstone scarcely noticed him, but went out into the street again. He turned into a refreshment bar and got a glass of sherry. Half an hour, perhaps, passed, then he made his way back to Ethelred Chambers. Just as he was within sight of them, a gentleman ran up against him, and was making the usual apology, when he broke off with: “Hallo, Bradstone! is that you? I say, my dear fellow, what a deuce of a mess we’re in!” “What do you mean?” said Bradstone. “Well! Good heavens, man, I mean this infernal bank.” “The South Indian?” said Bartley Bradstone, quite easily. The gentleman stared at him. “Well, you take it pretty coolly, Bradstone,” he said. “But I suppose to a man with your pile a facer like this does not matter, though I had an impression that you were in it more deeply than any of us. Why, it was one of your pet schemes, was it not?” and he smiled and winked. Bartley Bradstone nodded curtly. “Yes, I was in it pretty deeply,” he said. “But I sold out a week ago.” The other man stared at him. “Why, man, your name is still in the list of shareholders published to-day. Look here,” and he drew the city paper from his pocket, rapidly found the paragraph, and thrust it into Bradstone’s hands. Bartley Bradstone looked at it, then turned white. “There is some mistake,” he said. “I tell you I sold out a week ago--every share.” The man looked at him with something like pity. “By the Lord!” he muttered, under his breath, “the blow has sent him off his head!” But pity is too expensive a commodity in the city. It requires too much time. With a “Well, good-by, old fellow,” the gentleman hurried on and left Bartley Bradstone standing with the paper in his hand, looking like a man completely dazed. The crowd of passers-by jostled him and pushed him all unheeded; but at last he seemed to awake, and hurrying onward, ran up the steps and into Mr. Mowle’s office. Mr. Mowle was not there. He had gone, and so had the Gladstone bag! The office, too, was in greater disorder than before; and Bartley Bradstone, sinking into the chair before the table, saw a letter addressed to him lying on the desk. He tore it open with shaking fingers. Am detained. Shall be back in an hour. Suspicious and bewildered, Bartley Bradstone paced up and down the office, then he went to a safe which stood in the corner of the room. Unlocking it, he began to examine its contents. Then he uttered a cry of mingled rage and despair.