"It is my fault," he sighed, "I should have fathomed Grove long ago. Blind, blind! He's eaten up with vanity. Fancies himself a Napoleon on the field of affairs. They've played shrewdly on that. I can see it now. He doesn't realize yet what they've done to him, nor how. He's been bewildered for weeks--and still confident that if he could get enough money he could carry it off. A fool and his money! Power in weak hands. They made a tool of him, a common tool. And we've got to pay through the nose. There's no choice--unless we get down to their level and run to cover like jackals." "If you have proof of criminal acts, why don't you club them with that; _make_ them disgorge?" Rod asked. The older man shook his head. "Only as a last resort. I'm not really sure I could. Moral certainty is not legal proof. There are moneys loaned to companies that are really dummies. It's rather complicated, and they are very clever. I hardly expected to make them contribute funds. The most I hoped for was to frighten them away from a receivership, force them out of the thing quietly. I shrink from a public scandal. They wouldn't, if they felt personally safe. They could make Grove a proper scapegoat. No, I've done the best that can be done." The machine stopped before the club entrance. They went up to Norquay senior's rooms, and he produced a decanter and glasses and a siphon of soda. He drained his glass and set it down. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. "I have a strange feeling of some crisis at hand," he said gloomily. "I have taken the ultimate precaution. Their game is stopped, I'm sure. Still--I have that uneasy feeling. I'm not a fanciful man. I never took much stock in premonitions. Childish. Nevertheless--I can depend on you absolutely, Rod? Eh? If anything happens to me you'll see this thing through? Because there's no one else--you understand how I feel about it, don't you?" "Yes, pater," Rod said quietly. "I understand. But nothing's going to happen to you." "I'm an old man," his father said. "I can't stand much strain. What's the time? We'd better be getting back." Sometime during the luncheon hour the original shareholders and directors of the Norquay Trust Company completed the last task they would ever perform in that capacity at that great table. They took their scowling faces one by one from the room. The final exit was made by John P. Wall, rotund-bellied, imperturbable, unmoved to the last. He paused in the doorway to relight his cigar. "Well, Norquay senior," he said casually, "I have to admire your nerve--but your judgment is damn poor. A man may lose his money. Only a bloomin' idiot gives it away." CHAPTER XXII The three, father and two sons, remained seated at the table without speaking for a few seconds after Wall's parting shot. Then Grove heaved a sigh.