When in John Bagsbury’s office, just after Jack Dorlin had gone out, Curtin had shown the warehouse receipts to Sponley, the latter had exhibited what in other men would have been excitement, but with him was only preoccupation. He had sat down at John Bagsbury’s desk and looked at the yellow slips for some time. Then he said,-- “Pickering’ll have to pay for what lard he gets to-morrow.” Then realizing that he had made a slip, he had quickly begun talking about something else, and Curtin had cunningly feigned that he had not understood the chance remark. But a few minutes later he was walking home on air. For had not his jailer thrown him the key to his cell? Curtin had played with the markets before; that was the reason he now needed a job as assistant cashier, or as anything that would pay him a respectable salary. But he had been an outsider, a lamb. He had believed the newspapers, he had followed the crowd, he had trusted to luck. He knew now against what certainty of eventual disaster that sort of a game was played. But now he was an outsider no longer. Inadvertently Sponley had told him that lard would go up to-morrow. Sponley knew, because he himself intended to make it go up. And for the first time in his life Curtin would play with a probability of winning. When he had won (he could hardly contain himself at the thought of it), when he had won--well, he would begin by telling Sponley to go to hell. Ah, Sponley should know after all that he had hired the wrong sort of man, that it was unsafe to insult a gentleman! Then he would confess to John Bagsbury the wrong he had done him. No, that would hardly do; but he could contrive some sort of restitution to John, and then he would live happily and opulently ever after. Thus spake the prisoner; the coward had other things to say. He must use the bank’s money, he had none of his own. Then what if, after all, lard should go down. He would be an embezzler, would go to prison. At the thought, his mouth became dry, and curious ripples seemed to run the length of all his muscles. So all that morning the two men within him tore Curtin grievously. The way of the timorous, halfhearted transgressor is hard indeed. Jack Dorlin’s perplexity was less serious, but very irritating. He owed it only indirectly to the Bear. His direct concern was with the jackal. His bit of impromptu detective work the afternoon before had been as unsuccessful as possible. Had he discovered a little more or a little less, all would have been well. But as matters stood, he had enough ground for serious suspicion of Curtin, and not enough to warrant his speaking about it to John Bagsbury.