I signed the bill, and we went afoot up the avenue. Sam, as I saw with a good deal of amusement, was trying to devise some subtle, tactful way of attaching his poor, clumsy little suction-pump to the well of my secret thoughts. “What is it, Sammy?” said I at last. “What do you want to know that you're afraid to ask me?” “Nothing,” he said hastily. “I'm only a bit worried about--about you and Textile. Matt,”--this in the tone of deep emotion we reserve for the attempt to lure our friends into confiding that about themselves which will give us the opportunity to pity them, and, if necessary, to sheer off from them--“Matt, I do hope you haven't been hard hit?” “Not yet,” said I easily. “Dry your tears and put away your black clothes. Your friend, Tom Langdon, was a little premature.” “I'm afraid I've given you a false impression,” Sam continued, with an overeagerness to convince me that did not attract my attention at the time. “Tom merely said, 'I hear Blacklock is loaded up with Textile shorts,'--that was all. A careless remark. I really didn't think of it again until I saw you looking so black and glum.” That seemed natural enough, so I changed the subject. As we entered his house, I said: “I'll not go up to the drawing-room. Make my excuses to your mother, will you? I'll turn into the little smoking-room here. Tell your sister--and say I'm going to stop only a moment.” Sam had just left me when the butler came. “Mr. Ball--I think that was the name, sir--wishes to speak to you on the telephone.” I had given Ellerslys' as one of the places at which I might be found, should it be necessary to consult me. I followed the butler to the telephone closet under the main stairway. As soon as Ball made sure it was I, he began: “I'll use the code words. I've just seen Fearless, as you told me to.” Fearless--that was Mitchell, my spy in the employ of Tavistock, who was my principal rival in the business of confidential brokerage for the high financiers. “Yes,” said I. “What does he say?” “There has been a great deal of heavy buying for a month past.” Then my dread was well-founded--Textiles were to be deliberately rocketed. “Who's been doing it?” I asked. “He found out only this afternoon. It's been kept unusually dark. It--” “Who? Who?” I demanded. “Intrepid,” he answered. Intrepid--that is, Langdon--Mowbray Langdon! “The whole thing--was planned carefully,” continued Ball, “and is coming off according to schedule. Fearless overheard a final message Intrepid's brother brought from him to-day.” So it was no mischance--it was an assassination. Mowbray Langdon had stabbed me in the back and fled. “Did you hear what I said?” asked Ball. “Is that you?” “Yes,” I replied. “Oh,” came in a relieved tone from the other end of the wire. “You were so long in answering that I thought I'd been cut off. Any instructions?” “No,” said I. “Good-by.”