"It doesn't matter," he said. "I've got six million somewhere." Half an hour earlier I should have laughed. As it was I only stared at him stupidly. "Yes," I said. "I suppose you have." Then, in a sort of mechanical way, I opened the paper. For a moment I gazed at it like a man in a trance. "What's the matter?" asked Bruce. I was past speaking. I could only point with a trembling finger to the three huge headlines which seemed to dance mockingly across the page: "SUICIDE OF JOHN P. FOX. RUINED RUBBER KING BLOWS OUT HIS BRAINS. PAUPER FOR THE PAST SIX WEEKS." Bruce read them aloud in a strange, dry voice. Then he burst out into a horrid, cackling, mad sort of laugh. "That's done it!" he cried. "No money, and this nightmare of a day for ever!" His voice rose to a scream. "I'm damned if I do!" he yelled. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the Nadir Bandar. "I wish," he sobbed, "that I'd never had a wish at all!"