John Bagsbury spent the greater part of Monday in his office. On Sunday afternoon he had been to see Dawson, the former president of the Atlantic National. John trusted him thoroughly, so he had laid before him the whole situation; had told him that he thought a large block of the Bagsbury stock would be offered for sale next day, and that he wished to be in a position to buy it; and Dawson promptly told him that he might have all the money he needed to make the purchase. So John’s first move on Monday morning was to send a stockbroker around to Cartwright and Meredith to buy their stock before it should be offered in open market. “Buy it as cheap as you can,” he said. Then, mentioning a figure, “I think you can get it for that.” Half an hour later the broker telephoned that Cartwright was claiming that they had a much better offer, and asked John if he cared to go any higher. John did not for a moment believe that any one was bidding against him for the stock. He reflected that probably the old trustees were not so badly frightened as he had thought, and were holding out for a good price. He told the broker how much higher he might go, but cautioned him to do all he could to get the stock for less. Curtin came into the private office a little later and stayed about half an hour, telling some rather damaging things about Sponley, and making explanations which John half listened to and but half believed--that was about the proportion which Sponley had expected him to believe--and which he finally cut short. The episode irritated him more than did the visits from directors and stockholders, who kept steadily dropping in all day to offer him advice or remonstrance. He had expected that, however; more of it, in fact, than he was forced to take, and he explained and answered questions with a patience that did him credit. To everybody he said that the bank was in excellent shape, that all the loans were amply secured, and that the success or failure of the Pickering deal would not make the slightest difference in the dividends. Upon the whole, his visitors accepted the situation with fairly good grace. There was this about John Bagsbury: when he told you anything, you knew he was telling you the truth. Early in the afternoon the broker telephoned to him again. “I can’t get that stock, Mr. Bagsbury, even at your highest figure. There’s some one else after it. Do you want to offer any more?” John told the broker to let it go and quit, and in his leisure moments during the rest of the afternoon he wondered a good deal over what this sharp competition could mean. He could in no way attribute it to Sponley; but he was equally at a loss to find any other explanation. When the Bagsburys’ door-bell rang early that evening, John and Alice were surprised to see Dick move to answer it herself. They saw her walk through the library, and then heard her run the length of the hall. “They’ve made up,” said Alice. “Who?”