"Her mother, under the advice of the chief of the clan Brentwood, has been making a lot of bad investments for herself and her two daughters: in other words, she has been making ducks and drakes of the Brentwood fortune." Kent was as deeply moved as if the loss had been his own, and said as much, craving more of the particulars. "I can't give them. But I may say that the blame lies at your door, David." "At my door? How do you arrive at that?" "By the shortest possible route. If you had done your duty by Elinor in the Croydon summer, Mrs. Brentwood would have had a bright young attorney for a son-in-law and adviser, and the bad investments would not have been made." Kent's laugh was entirely devoid of mirth. "Don't trample on a man when he's down. I was neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet. But how bad is the smash? Surely you know that?" "No, I don't. Bradford was telling me about it the day I left Boston. He gave me to understand that the principal family holding at present is in the stock of a certain western railway." "Did he happen to know the name of the stock?" asked Kent, moistening his lips. "He did. Fate flirts with you two in the usual fashion. Mrs. Brentwood's little fortune--and by consequence, Elinor's and Penelope's--is tied up in the stock of the company whose platform we are occupying at the present moment--the Western Pacific." Kent let slip a hard word directed at ill-advisers in general, and Loring took his cue from the malediction. "You swear pretty feelingly, David. Isn't our property as good a thing as we of the Boston end have been cracking it up to be?" "You know better about the financial part of it than I do. But--well, you are fresh from this anarchistic conclave at the Opera House. You can imagine what the stock of the Western Pacific, or of any other foreign corporation doing business in this State, will be worth in six months after Bucks and his crowd get into the saddle." "You speak as if the result of the election were a foregone conclusion. I hope it isn't. But we were talking more particularly of Miss Brentwood, and your personal responsibilities." The belated train was whistling for the lower yard, and Loring was determined to say all that was in his mind. "Yes; go on. I'm anxious to hear--more anxious than I seem to be, perhaps." "Well, she is coming West, after a bit. She, and her sister and the mother. Mrs. Brentwood's asthma is worse, and the wise men have ordered her to the interior. I thought you'd like to know." "Is she--are they coming this way?" asked Kent. The train was in, and the porter had fetched Loring's hand-bag from the check-stand. The guest paused with one foot on the step of the sleeping-car.