And, having thus relieved his mind, Simmons, turned to his desk, and after a half-hour of careful computation handed Weston a statement and check for one hundred and ten thousand dollars, which represented the net results of the securities Weston had turned over to him, after deducting the actual loss they had made on Rockhaven. For the money received from the sale of some thirty thousand shares at one dollar each, had more than been consumed in buying back stock at various prices to affect the market, in the quarrying operations, in _Market News_ items, and various other outgoes. What Weston did receive after over a year of scheming was less than the original capital Hill had put into the firm. Weston had previously checked out and pocketed the firm's own bank balance, and now he went the way he had for months planned to go, and that night left the city. And his wife, who had shrewdly insisted that their residence be deeded to her, in case of business reverses, shed no tears. It was a fitting climax to the life of a J. Malcolm Weston. But there was another episode of equal interest, and that the outcome of Weston's robbery of Hill. And when that has been told, no more shall either of these despicable men taint this narrative. All that day while Rockhaven was first shooting skyward and then downward, Hill sat in his office watching the ticker. He couldn't go on to the floor of the exchange; he knew Weston was with Simmons; and so, like a human hyena, he lurked in his own den, waiting for his share of the plunder. And when the tape recorded forty for Rockhaven and then down to nothing in less time than it can be told, Hill was the happiest of men. He knew the plan was for Simmons to sell at forty, and supposed that he had done so. And in his greedy joy he began figuring how much his share of the street's robbery would be. No thought of the poor widow, whose child was even then at her work in his outer office, came to him. He knew this confiding woman had, at his suggestion, invested her all in Rockhaven, and that now it had been swept away. It mattered not. Neither did he think of Mrs. Converse, more especially Weston's dupe, and whose stock, now worthless, was locked in their safe. No thought of young Winn Hardy, their faithful helper, and his loss came. No thought of anybody who had lost by them and must suffer entered his narrow and backward-sloping cranium. He only thought of himself. And his deep-set eyes gleamed with the miser's joy, and his shallow conceit swelled with pride. Now he was a great financier! Now he was a power "on 'change"! When the market closed and the now beggared stenographer and other office help had gone home, he still waited. Weston would surely come soon and acquaint him with the results of their great achievement. But Weston came not. And Hill still waited.