But the other shook his head. He was enjoying his triumph—a triumph beyond his hopes. “What you suggest,” he said, a faint note of sarcasm in his tone, “comes to this, Mr. Ovington—that we pool resources? That is how I understand you?” “Practically.” “Well, I am afraid that in justice to our customers I must reply that we cannot do that. We must think of them first, and of ourselves next.” Ovington took up his hat. The other’s tone was coldly decisive. Still he made a last effort. “Here is the list,” he said. “Perhaps if you and your brother went over it at your leisure?” But Dean waved the list away. “It would be useless,” he said. “Quite useless. We could not entertain the idea.” He was already anticipating the enjoyment with which he would tell his brother the news. With a heavy heart, Ovington replaced the list in his breast pocket. “Very good,” he said. His face was grave. “I did not expect—to be frank—any other answer, Mr. Dean. But I thought it was my duty to see you. I regret your decision. Good-morning.” “Good-morning,” the other banker replied, and he rang for his man-servant. “They’re gone,” he reflected complacently, as the door closed behind his visitor. “Smashed, begad!” and with the thought he rid himself of a sense of inferiority which had more than once troubled him in his rival’s presence. He sat down to eat his breakfast with a good appetite. The day would be a trying one, but Dean’s, at any rate, was safe. Dean’s, thank God, had never put its hand out farther than it could draw it back. How pleased his brother would be! That was the worst, immeasurably the worst, of Ovington’s experiences, but it was not the only painful interview that was in store for him before the bank opened that morning. Twice, men, applying, stealthy and importunate, at the back door, forced their way in to him. They were not of those who had claims on the bank and feared to be losers by it. They were in debt to it, but desperate and pushed for money they saw in the bank’s necessity their opportunity. They—one of the two was Purslow—required only small sums, and both had conceived the idea that, as the bank was about to fail, it would be all one to Ovington whether he obliged them or not. It would be but a hundred or so the less for the creditors, and as the bank had sold their pledged stocks they thought that it owed them something. They had still influence, their desperate straits were not yet known; if he obliged them they would do this and that and the other—nebulous things—for him. Ovington, of course, could do nothing for them, but to harden his heart against their appeals was not a good preparation for the work before him, and when he entered the bank five minutes before ten, he had to brace himself in order to show an unmoved front to the clerks.