Curtin read the first sentence, then his eye glanced swiftly down the column, looking for his own name; but there was small relief in the fact that he did not find it there. He was certain that John Bagsbury’s words were not a bluff. So, wondering how much the Banker knew, more than he had told the reporters, Curtin allowed his breakfast to grow cold and to be taken away untasted. It was too early to go to the bank, but there was nothing else to do, and he could not keep still, so he set out down town. What followed is not pleasant, but it was inevitable. He could not get a seat in the elevated train, and the long jolting ride left him sick and giddy. He went directly to the bank, though it was far too early to go in, and after hesitating a while on the steps, he went away and wandered aimlessly about the streets. The people he passed stared at him, and he knew that his white face and uncertain walk gave them excuse enough. It would never do for John Bagsbury to see him looking like that. He needed something to stiffen him up for that morning’s work, so he turned into the nearest bar. A man with an empty stomach and a weak head must exercise great discretion in drinking Scotch whiskey, and Curtin knew it. He would only take a very little. It would have been fortunate for him and for Melville Sponley if after he once started he had drunk himself to sleep, or to the police station. But he kept his promise to himself, he took only a little. What wonderful stuff that liquid amber was! As he sipped it, he felt his sluggish blood stirring; it was making a man of him. The fears of the night were gone far back into his memory now; he could think of them and laugh. He was ready for whatever might happen at the bank. The moment of discovery would not disconcert him in the least. He took one more little drink, and then, with almost a swagger, he walked back to the bank. John Bagsbury might look at him now and be damned! * * * * * Melville Sponley read the report of the interview with John Bagsbury and accorded it ungrudging admiration. That direct way of saying things was characteristic of John, and when he did it, it was immensely effective. That was the reward, the Bear reflected, which sometimes comes to a man who never drives a hard bargain with the truth. This blurting out of the whole story was a good move. It was worthy of the very pretty fight the Banker had been making this past week. The Bear could afford to look with ironical indulgence on John’s last desperate efforts to save himself, because he knew how futile they were. The Bear was in high feather. There was some credit in beating a combination like Pickering and Bagsbury. Bagsbury was, bar one, the best man in the city.