“_Hic jacet!_” he said to himself, as he went over the securities and estimated the amount of available cash he could command. He had speculated before and had been reasonably successful in most instances; he must speculate again, for in no other way could he bring his resources up to the point desired within the time limitations. The moment he reached this point he would put everything in stocks or bonds that would be absolutely safe. Indeed, he would do this as fast as he got a little ahead of the game. Wentworth had speculated previously only with money that he could afford to lose; but he was speculating now with his entire surplus. It had been a divertisement before; it was a business now. He had to win—and he lost. No one could be more careful than he, but his judgment was wrong. When he had given the markets no particular attention he had taken an occasional “flier” with success; when he made a study of conditions and discussed the situation with friendly authorities he found himself almost invariably in error. There was something pathetic and disquieting in the affection and consideration he displayed for his wife and child during this time. He endeavored to conceal his own distress, but morning after morning his wife clung to him and looked anxiously into his face. He spoke cheeringly, but he grew daily more haggard, and she knew he was concealing something. Once she asked for news about the life insurance policy. “Oh, that’s all settled,” he replied, but he did not tell her how it was settled. Finally she went to see Murray. He had brought the news that had made this great change in her husband, and he could tell her what was worrying him. Murray had not called since that evening. While in no sense responsible for it, he had been so closely identified with this blow that had fallen on his friend that he felt his presence, for a time at least, would be only an unpleasant reminder. “I must know this secret,” she told Murray with earnest directness of speech. “It is killing Stanley. He is worried and anxious, and he is working himself to death in an effort to straighten out some complication.” “He mustn’t do that!” exclaimed Murray quickly. “Work and worry are the two things for him to avoid.” “Why?” demanded Mrs. Wentworth. Murray hesitated. He knew why Wentworth had kept this from his wife, but was it wise? The man was deliberately walking to his grave. Ought not his wife to be informed in order that she might take the necessary steps to save him? It would be a breach of confidence, but did not the circumstances justify it? Wentworth was his friend, and he had a sincere regard for Mrs. Wentworth. Surely he ought not to stand idly by and witness a tragedy that he might prevent. [Illustration: “You—you didn’t insure him?” she said inquiringly] “Mrs. Wentworth,” he said at last, “the thing that is worrying Stanley is the fact that we had to decline him as a risk.“