"Now, then," continued Wilkinson, "what are we going to do with--with this incubus Ilingsworth?" "Jug him, Peter! The man is dangerous--he's a bad one." Wilkinson pulled away at his black cigar. This was a problem and he liked problems. Ilingsworth was in his power, and Wilkinson did not intend to let his chance slip by. Just then his eyes chanced to light on the scareheads of the extras on his desk: TRI-STATE TRUST COMPANY CLOSES ITS DOORS But the magnate felt no sensation on reading them. That very afternoon, for that matter, he had seen thousands of them on the streets; and so, they moved him not at all. Nevertheless, he tossed one to Flomerfelt. "Pretty serious predicament, eh, Flomerfelt?" he said easily. Coolly, Flomerfelt rose, reached over for a cigar and lighted it. "There are only two men in this city who can handle a situation of that kind," he answered significantly. Wilkinson merely raised his eyebrows. "And these two," Flomerfelt continued, "have got to work together. If they don't----" His eye caught the other's glance and held it. "If they don't, chief, the devil take the hindmost." Peter V. Wilkinson laughed until he was red in the face. "You blamed upstart!" he burst out. "Do you think that Peter V. Wilkinson isn't able to go it alone?" "I know he isn't," emphatically. Wilkinson sprang to his feet. "Why, you infernal idiot!" he shouted. "Who conceived the scheme of transferring fifty millions of securities of my own to those broken capitalists, Ellenbogen, Glackner & Gilroy, and of taking over a hundred millions of wild-cat stocks! Who thought of having the stock--the good stock, on the books, transferred to the names of these three men, and then having them pass it over to an unknown holder--Leslie Wilkinson! And who thought of sending these three men to different parts of Europe, where they can't be found! Let those who will, ask questions of me--you know what answer they'll get! Let them ask questions of me!" he went on, swelling in the pride of generalship. "My records show that I'm ruined. Let them ask questions of Leslie Wilkinson--who's got the stuff, and who doesn't know she's got it--what will they find out? Who else is there to ask? Three inaccessible old fools who'll stay where we put 'em until it all blows over. Who conceived that scheme? And who framed another that disposed of thirty-five more millions? Tell me that, eh? Was it you?" Flomerfelt's smile was a sneer. In turn, he rose and looked his chief full in the face, his own small, ferret eyes alight with contempt. "It may have taken a good man to conceive the scheme, but it took a better man to put these things into execution, to----" Wilkinson laughed. "To do the dirty work," he interposed, contemptuously. Flomerfelt nodded. "Have it that way if you will, chief," he assented. "It's dirty work any way you may put it. However, don't you forget one thing, it was I that did it--and doing it, I did what no one else could do."