“In a way, you’re playing right into his hand. He’s making a deliberate attack on the bank. He’ll stop at nothing, and the knowledge of this second loan makes his case stronger. The moral effect on the depositors will be bad. You can bet they’ll know about it before night.” Pickering rose, “Are you still willing to let me have it, Mr. Bagsbury?” “Yes,” said John, curtly. “I told you you could have it. The loan’s good and the security’s good. I’ll chance it on the effect.” “I guess I’d have done the same thing myself,” said Dawson, after the speculator had left the office; “still I can’t be sure it isn’t a mistake. I must go on--just dropped in to see if you were in any trouble. Good-by.” A little later Curtin telephoned over to Sponley the news of the second loan to Pickering and of Dawson’s visit to the bank. There had been, he added, no unusual drain on the bank, nothing in the least resembling the beginning of a run. As he left the telephone box, he saw that John Bagsbury’s eye was on him; he avoided it, then with a poor affectation of coolness sought it again and, being unsuccessful, walked hastily to his desk. He knew John thought him a cur; but he wondered whether the president suspected anything else. The blow was a heavy one to Sponley, heavier than all the hammering Pickering was giving him, and he took it hard. The reënforcement of his enemy was bad enough, but it was not the worst. He could measure it. Dawson’s visit was a mystery. How much or how little it might mean he could not even guess, but the thought that this tremendous old fighter might take a hand troubled him seriously. And his ingenious plotting to start a run on the bank had evidently failed. Somewhere or other, he had made a bad miscalculation. For the last hour or two of the trading that day Sponley’s plight was desperate. Pickering was indeed making him sweat; but the Bear’s nerve was not shaken, and he fought furiously. Twice he was within two minutes of being sold out; but both times he was able, though barely, to put up his margins. When the closing bell rang, and he was safe for another twenty hours, he went to the nearest café and drank enough whiskey to make his attendant stare at him; and then with steady hands and lips, and the old purposeful look in his eye, he went out and drove straight home. “Shall you want the carriage again this afternoon, sir?” asked the coachman, when they reached the house. “I think in about an hour.” Still the man hesitated, holding the impatient horses which had started to move off toward the stable. He had worked for Sponley for fifteen years, and he felt a profound admiration for him. He knew that something troubled his employer, and he was halting on the brink of taking a liberty. “Well,” said Sponley, “what is it?” “I beg your pardon, sir; I hope nothing has gone wrong.”