“But isn’t—isn’t all this a little premature?” Arthur asked, his tone cold and business-like. “I don’t understand why you think that all this is coming upon us at a moment’s notice, sir? Without warning?” “Not quite without warning,” the banker rejoined with patience. Clement’s declaration of faith had moved him more deeply than he showed, and, having that, he could bear a little disappointment. “I have hinted more than once, Arthur, that I was uneasy. But why, you ask, this sudden alarm—now? Well, look at Richardson’s list of last Friday’s prices. You have not seen it. Exchequer Bills that a week ago were at par are at a discount. India Stock are down five points on the day—a large fall for such a stock. New Four per Cents, have fallen 3, Bank Stock that stood at 224 ten days ago is 214. These are not panic falls, but they are serious figures. With Bank Stock falling ten points in as many days, what will happen to the immense mass of speculative securities held by the public, and on much of which calls are due? It will be down this week; next week the banks will have to throw it out to save their margins, and customers to pay their calls. It will fall, and fall. The week after, perhaps, panic! A rush to draw deposits, or a rush to cash notes, or, probably, both.” “Then you think—you must think”—Arthur’s voice was not quite under his control—“that there is danger?” “It would be as foolish in me to deny it here,” the banker replied gravely, “as it would be reckless in me to affirm it outside. There is danger. We shall run a risk, but I believe that we shall win through, though, it may be, by a narrow margin. And a little thing might upset us.” Arthur was not of an anxious temperament—far from it. But he had committed himself to the bank. He had involved himself in its fortunes in no ordinary way. He had joined it against the wishes of his friends and in the teeth of the prejudices of his caste. He had staked his reputation for judgment upon its success, and assured that it would give him in the future all for which he thirsted, he had deemed himself far-sighted, and others fools. In doing this he had never dreamt of failure, he had never weighed the possibility of loss. Not once had he reflected that he might turn out to be wrong and robbed of the prize—might in the end be a laughing-stock! Now as the possibility of all this, as the thought of failure, complete and final, flooded his mind and shook his self-confidence, he flinched. Danger! Danger, owned to by Ovington himself! Ah, he ought to have known! He ought to have suspected that fortunes were not so easily made! He ought to have reflected that Ovington’s was not Dean’s! That it was but a young bank, ill-rooted as yet—and speculative! Ay, speculative! Such a bank might fall, he was almost certain now that it would fall, as easily as it had risen!