John turned sharply, with a new idea. Above all other claims, above the consideration of self, he owed a duty to the stockholders. They had a right to know what he knew; he could not shield Haviland with his silence. He must see one of the directors. He paused uncertainly on a street corner. To whom should he go? At the board meetings he had been impressed with Mr. Bliss' kindliness of manner; he would go to him rather than to any of the others, and tell him what he knew of the situation, and resign. He was sick of the whole business and felt himself unequal to it. He glanced around, hoping he might see a belated cab, but the street was silent and deserted. It was three o'clock when he reached Mr. Bliss'. Four times he halted doubtfully before the door; four times he felt his courage ebb and flow, and four times he wandered aimlessly down the block. The fifth time he mounted the steps; there was a momentary irresolution, and then he rang the bell with a firm hand. He felt like a criminal, a conspirator, as he stood there, for, after all, Haviland had his good points—only one would never have supposed it merely from associating with him. He was on the point of abandoning his project, when the sickening fear returned that in some way he might be implicated. He thought of Alice and the children, and set his lips in grim determination; he dared not do less than protect himself. At last a sleepy half-dressed footman opened the door. “What do you want?” he asked crossly. “I must see Mr. Bliss,” and John pushed past him into the hall. “Come in the morning.” “I must see him now.” “Well, you can't! He's in bed.” At that moment Mr. Bliss himself appeared at the head of the stairs, dimly visible in a long white sexless garment. “What is it, Martin?” he asked. “A telegram?” “It's I, Mr. Bliss,—Norton—the bookkeeper from Bliss, Haviland and Company. I must see you! It's a matter of the utmost importance,” he said earnestly. “Martin, light the gas in the library. I'll be down in a moment, Mr. Norton.” Ten minutes later he joined John down-stairs in the library. “Now, what is it, Mr. Norton?” he asked cheerfully. “It's about the directors' statement,” said John with a troubled air. “Well?” his companion interrogated, while he bent upon the young man a shrewd glance. He wondered if the bookkeeper had been purloining the funds of the company. “I have just come from Mr. Haviland,” John explained. “I want to resign. He expects me to make up the statement without going over the securities. He has offered me fifteen thousand dollars for the kind of a statement he wants.”