Philip had dreaded to come to the office that morning and encounter the inquisition and perhaps the compliments of his fellow-clerks. He had seen his name in staring capitals in the book-seller's window as he came down, and he felt that it was shamefully exposed to the public gaze, and that everybody had seen it. The clerks, however, gave no sign that the event had disturbed them. He had encountered many people he knew on the street, but there had been no recognition of his leap into notoriety. Not a fellow in the club, where he had stopped a moment, had treated him with any increased interest or deference. In the office only one person seemed aware of his extraordinary good fortune. Mr. Tweedle had come to the desk and offered his hand in his usual conciliatory and unctuous manner. “I see by the paper, Mr. Burnett, that we are an author. Let me congratulate you. Mrs. Tweedle told me not to come home without bringing your story. Who publishes it?” “I shall be much honored,” said Philip, blushing, “if Mrs. Tweedle will accept a copy from me.” “I didn't mean that, Mr. Burnett; but, of course, gift of the author--Mrs. Tweedle will be very much pleased.” In half an hour Mr. Mavick came out, passed him without recognition, and hurried from the office, and Philip was summoned to Mr. Hunt's room. “I want you to go to Washington immediately, Mr. Burnett. Return by the night train. You can do without your grip? Take these papers to Buckston Higgins--you see the address--who represents the British Argentine syndicate. Wait till he reads them and get his reply. Here is the money for the trip. Oh, after Mr. Higgins writes his answer, ask him if you can telegraph me 'yes' or 'no.' Good-morning.” While Philip was speeding to Washington, an important conference was taking place in Murad Ault's office. He was seated at his desk, and before him lay two despatches, one from Chicago and a cable from London. Opposite him, leaning forward in his chair, was a lean, hatchet-faced man, with keen eyes and aquiline nose, who watched his old curbstone confidant like a cat. “I tell you, Wheatstone,” said Mr. Ault, with an unmoved face, bringing his fist down on the table, “now is the time to sell these three stocks.” “Why,” said Mr. Wheatstone, with a look of wonder, “they are about the strongest on the list. Mavick controls them.” “Does he?” said Ault. “Then he can take care of them.” “Have you any news, Mr. Ault?” “Nothing to speak of,” replied Ault, grimly. “It just looks so to me. All you've got to do is to sell. Make a break this afternoon, about two or three points off.” “They are too strong,” protested Mr. Wheatstone. “That is just the reason. Everybody will think something must be the matter, or nobody would be fool enough to sell. You keep your eye on the Spectrum this afternoon and tomorrow morning. About Organization and one or two other matters.”