As I wrote, I was astonished to see a dozen lines above my pen the signature of Peter Bolton, and it struck fire to my anger that the arch-conspirator--the man who had inspired the disorder that threatened the city--should have enrolled his name among those who pledged their lives and fortunes to its defense. I gave a quick look about the room with the thought that I should discover the spare face and sardonic smile of the curmudgeon enjoying the flutter into which he had thrown the solid men of the city. But he was nowhere to be seen, and I debated whether I should call Mr. Coleman’s attention to the matter; but as I remembered that Wharton Kendrick had checked a mention of Bolton’s name in Coleman’s own house, and saw no present purpose to be served by the discovery, I followed the sound rule of keeping my mouth shut. And as William T. Coleman retired to the office of the Committee of Twenty-four, I returned to my duties. On entering the door of my office I was given a shock of surprise. A man of spare figure, tall, with bowed and narrow shoulders, sat facing Partridge and Nelson, and presented only his back to my view; but the back was unmistakably the back of Peter Bolton. Nelson leaned forward, watching him with close attention, while Partridge was running rapidly through a bundle of papers. "I’ve got to have the money," were the first words that came to me in Peter Bolton’s complaining voice. "Here are the securities--pretty good securities, too--better than you took from Packenham, or Hooper, or a dozen others--ten times as good as you took from the Sundown Bank." Partridge swiftly sorted the papers into two packets. The larger one he threw across the desk to Bolton. "The banks will take those," he said with crisp brevity. "We can advance three hundred thousand on the others, if necessary. What do you want to do with the money?" Peter Bolton gave his head a slow shake. "I’ve got to save myself from going under," he said in a whining tone. "I’ve got notes to pay, and three hundred thousand dollars won’t cover them. I ought to have a million." "Let’s see the statement of your liabilities," said Partridge. Peter Bolton fumbled in his inside coat pocket, brought out a large pocket-book, untied the string with which he had secured it, and then looked through its bulging compartments. "I don’t like to show it," he complained. "It’s Private Business, and I don’t like to trust any one with my Private Business." "Suit yourself," said Partridge. "Try some other place if you like." Peter Bolton’s trembling hand brought out a sheet of paper from one of the recesses of the pocket-book, and passed it over to Partridge. "There it is," he said. "You can see I’ve got to have money right away. If I don’t pay them notes, I’ll be posted on the Exchange; and you can’t afford to have that happen. If I go down, there’ll be such a smash in the markets as you’ve never seen. I shan’t go down alone."