"I'm coming to that. In all previous slumps there has been a very good excuse for a panic hanging round. In the present instance no such excuse exists. There is a good feeling abroad, money is free and the Bank Rate is low, and the recent spurt in Kaffirs and Yankee rails has put a good heart into the market--why, even the Brontes have dealt!" He mentioned the name of the great bank, which, in the City of London, ranks second to the Bank of England only. "I don't know exactly the details of their dealing, but it is pretty generally known in the City that they have increased their commitments, and, when a conservative house like Bronte's takes advantage of a spell of prosperity, you may be sure that peace is in the very air we breathe." T. B. Smith was thoughtfully rolling a glass paper-weight up and down a blotting-pad, and Van Ingen, following such a plain lead, was regarding the ceiling with an air of pained resignation. Neither of the two spoke when the Committee-man finished his recital. He waited a little longer for them to offer some remark, and, finding that neither had any comment to make, he asked, a little impatiently: "Well?" T. B. roused himself from his reverie. "Would you mind telling me the names of the stocks again?" he asked. "The stocks that are being attacked." The member recited a list. "Um!" said the Commissioner thoughtfully. "Industrials, breweries, manufactories--the very shares that enjoyed the boom are now undergoing the slump. Will you give me a Stock Exchange Year-book?" "Certainly." He unlocked the door and went out, reappearing shortly with a fat brown volume. T. B. turned the pages of the book with quick, nervous fingers, consulting the list at his side from time to time. "Thank you," he said at length, pushing the book from him and rising. "Have you any idea----?" the broker began, and T. B. laughed. "You nearly said 'clue,'" he smiled; "yes, I've lots of ideas--I'm just going to work one of them out." He bowed slightly, and the two men left the building together. Van Ingen was burning with curiosity, but he wisely kept silence. At the corner of Threadneedle Street, Smith bought an evening paper. "Issued at 4.10," he said, glancing at the "fudge" space, where the result of a race had been printed, "and nothing has happened." He hailed a passing cab, and the two men got in. "Bronte's Bank, Holborn," was the direction he gave. "Like the immortal Mrs. Harris, there ain't no Bronte, as you know," he said. "The head of the business is Sir George Calliper. He's an austere young man of thirty-five or thereabouts. President of philosophical societies and patron of innumerable philanthropies." "Has no vices," added Van Ingen. "And therefore a little inhuman," commented T. B. "Here we are." They drew up before the severe façade of Bronte's, and dismissed the cab.