The man was coming nearer and nearer. Presently he seemed to be opposite their door. They could almost hear the words shouted in the harsh broken voice of the London street hawker: ‘Speshul’dition! Bank city! Failer Great Blankshur Bank!’ John Adrian doubted his ears. He had not caught the slurred words aright. He started up from his chair, his face pale and his limbs trembling, and almost ran to the front door. The man was passing. He hailed him and took a paper. He handed him the first coin in his pocket. It was a shilling. In his excitement he clutched the paper and closed the door, never waiting for his change. With trembling hands he unfolded the paper, and scanned the contents in the flickering light of the hall lamp. There was no need to look far. There it was in huge letters—letters of flame that seared his heart: ‘TERRIBLE COMMERCIAL DISASTER. FAILURE OF THE GREAT BLANKSHIRE BANK. ENORMOUS LIABILITIES.’ John Adrian read the fatal words. The heading was enough. He had no need to read the details that followed. The letters swam before his eyes; a faint, sick feeling seized him, and with a groan he reeled forward. ‘Father!’ Ruth had noticed her father’s strange look as he left the sitting-room, and had followed him. She ran forward and caught him in her arms, or he would have fallen. ‘Father, you are ill? she eried. ‘What is it? Let me send for a doctor!’ John Adrian had recovered the first shook, and had steadied himself. ‘A doctor’s no good. My poor Ruth!’ he groaned. He held the paper towards his daughter, and she knew the worst. Her father was a shareholder in the ruined bank! ‘It’s ruin, child!’ he groaned. ‘Ruin! The saving of a lifetime swept away! We are beggars!’ ‘Oh, father, don’t despair!’ whispered Ruth, trembling. ‘It may not be so bad as you think.’ ‘It’s ruin, I tell you!’ he cried, almost savagely. ‘We shall be houseless beggars! Oh, my God! my God!’ ‘Poor mother!’ sighed Ruth. ‘It will break her heart!’ John Adrian started. ‘Hush!’ he said, seizing Ruth’s arm. ‘Keep it from her as long as we can.’ The room door was closed. While they spoke it opened and Mrs. Adrian came out. ‘What ever are you two doing in the hall?’ she asked, snappishly. ‘What’s in the paper, after all?’ ‘Didn’t you hear what the man said, mother?’ asked Ruth, eagerly. ‘No; I can’t hear anything for my cold. What was it?—a murder?’ ‘Yes, my dear,’ answered John Adrian, keeping his white face turned away. ‘A murder—an awful murder!’ ‘Where?’ ‘In Patagonia.’ John Adrian tried to give a little laugh, but it was a ghastly failure, and ended in a groan. ‘I thought it was a catchpenny. And the idea of your going rushing out catching your death to buy that rubbish! Murder in Patagonia, indeed! The Patagonians’ll be the death of _you_ before you’re done.’ Mrs. Adrian went back to her chair. Mr. Adrian made some excuse and went upstairs to his room, bidding Ruth go in and talk to her mother.