"I've sold your hundred thousand Anglo-French," he announced. "It's done the whole market in, though--knocked the bottom out of it. They've fallen a point and a half. Shall I begin to buy back for you? You'll make a bit." "Not a share," Fischer answered fiercely. "Wait!" "Have you any news you're keeping up your sleeve?" Van Teyl persisted. "If I have, it's my own affair," was the curt reply, "and I don't tell news over the telephone, anyway. Watch the market, and go on selling where you can." "I shall do as you order," Van Teyl replied, "but you're all against the general tone here. By the bye, you got my letter?" "I haven't opened it yet," Fischer snapped. "What's the matter?" "Pamela and I have taken a little flat in Fifty-eighth Street. Seems a little abrupt, but she didn't want to be alone, and she hates hotels. We felt sure you'd understand." "Yes, I understand," Fischer said. "Good-by! I'm busy." The doctor completed his examination. When he had finished he mentioned his fee. "You work too hard, and you live in an atmosphere of too great strain. The natural consequences are already beginning to show themselves. If I give you medicine, it will only encourage you to keep on wasting yourself, but you can have medicine if you like." "Send me something to take for the next fortnight," Fischer replied. "After that, I'll take my chance." The doctor wrote a prescription and took his leave. Fischer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His mind travelled back through these latter days of his over-strenuous life. In such minutes of relaxation, few of which he permitted himself, he realised with bitter completeness the catastrophe which had overtaken him--him, Oscar Fischer, of all men on earth. Into his life of grim purposes, of lofty and yet narrow ambitions, of almost superhuman tenacity, had crept the one weakening strain whose presence in other men he had always scoffed at and derived. There was a new and enervating glamour over the days, a new and hatefully powerful rival for all his thoughts and dreams. Ten years ago, he reflected sadly, this might have made a different man of him, might have unlocked the gates into another, more peaceful and beautiful world, visions of which had sometimes vaguely disturbed him in his cold and selfish climb. Now it could only mean suffering. This was the first stroke. It was the assertion of humanity which was responsible for his present weakness. How far might it not drag him down? There should be a fight, at any rate, he told himself, as an hour or two later he made his way downtown. He paid several calls in the vicinity of Wall Street, and finished up in Van Teyl's office. That young man greeted him with a certain relief. "You know the tone of the market's still against you, Fischer," he warned him once more.