“But he won’t run it any longer. You know where Crab Creek Trestle is? Well, the logs are all on the other side of it. And they’re going to stay there. The Diversity Hardwood Company is going to have the misfortune to lose its trestle by fire to-night. He’ll have to shut down. Then creditors will get worried. They’ll be down on him, but I’ll be there a little ahead.” “How?” said Marie, breathlessly. “I’m a director of the Diversity Bank,” he chuckled. “Ashe borrowed thirty thousand dollars of us, and gave a demand-note. You know what that is?” “Yes.” “To-morrow the note will be presented. He’ll have to raise that amount of money inside of three days—and he can’t do it. Oh, it won’t be long before a man named Michael Moran will be manufacturing clothespins with Ashe’s machinery.” “But if you should fail about the trestle, if it shouldn’t burn, would he be able to beat you and keep his mill?” Moran shrugged his shoulders. “Possibly, but there’s no use thinking about that, The trestle is as good as gone.” “Oh!” said Marie, and sank back in her chair. It was so complete, so perfect. Jim was beaten. He had worked so hard, so faithfully; had builded such high hopes—to go down in ruin! Jim! And nothing she could do or say would stay the disaster, would postpone it an instant. She shivered, coughed. “It’s cold. A moment while I get my shawl.” She stepped into the house. Moran waited, warmed by a feeling of complete satisfaction. She was his; at last she had surrendered. And Ashe was in the hollow of his hand. Zaanan Frame, too, was beaten. From first to last the thing had been handled efficiently, as an able business man should handle it. He leaned back and lighted a cigar. For a few moments he puffed contentedly. Marie did not return. Presently he grew impatient. Another few minutes, and he leaped up to tramp the length of the porch. Still she did not come. He stepped to the door and called: “Marie! Marie! What’s keeping you all this time?” There was no answer. He called again, went inside. Marie was not down-stairs. He called Mrs. Stickney. The widow answered from above. “Is Marie up there?” Moran called. “Hain’t seen her,” said the widow. “Didn’t she just come up there?” “Not unless she’s quieter’n a spook. Nobody’s passed my door.” “Where is she, then?” He was in a rage now. “Where’s she gone to?” “I hain’t no idee,” said the widow, sharply, “but if she’s where you don’t know where she is I calc’late I’m satisfied.” Her door slammed. Moran stood an instant. The suspicion that had been germinating within him became certainty. The girl had played him like a fish. She was gone to warn Ashe. He pulled his hat on furiously and ran—ran toward the hotel to intercept Marie. CHAPTER XXIII Marie stopped, panting, at the hotel piazza. “Mr. Ashe?” she said. “Where’s Mr. Ashe?”