He looked at his friend with a glance of warning which sought to convey to him the distrust he could not openly phrase. "If Mr. Beecher wishes to stand on technicalities," said Garraboy, in his even, oily voice, "he can do so. He can make a very nice profit. Which is it? I repeat, I can not give you much time." "Miss Charters’ letter is sufficient," said Beecher suddenly. "Good-day." The feeling of mortification and chagrin which her action had brought on him dominated all other feelings. He went out in a rage, tearing the letter into minute fragments. Without a word they reached the street and entered the automobile. "Last time I ever try to help a woman!" he said, between his teeth. "What the deuce did you play into his game for?" said Gunther. "He’s bamboozled her. I believe the fellow is an out-and-out crook—he’s got a rotten bad eye. Why the deuce didn’t you get the stocks?" "She can take her own risks," said Beecher furiously. "It’s her own affair if she’s going to blow hot and cold. By Jove, Bruce, I never met any one who could make me so mad clear through and through." He stopped, biting his lips, and Gunther with a shy glance stored away for future comment the impression he received. "What’s the use of taking them seriously?" he said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Amuse yourself, but don’t let them absorb you. Suppose we take a turn at the Curb and see what’s doing." With the opening of the market, all the giant sides of Wall Street seemed suddenly animated with the fury of a disturbed ant-hill. Every one was rushing in and out, carrying with them the pollution of disaster and alarm. Eddie Fontaine and Steve Plunkett hurried past them with quick nods. At the curb market the brokers were shrieking and flinging their frantic signals in the air. They entered the Stock Exchange, nodding to the doorkeeper, who knew Gunther, and reached the balcony, their ears suddenly smitten with the confused uproar from below. They stood there a few minutes, marveling at that Inferno of speculation and embattled greed flung before them in all the nakedness of man’s terror; and then left, oppressed by the too frank exhibition of their mortal counterparts. "What’s doing?" asked Gunther as they returned. The doorkeeper, with a shrug of his shoulders, flung down his thumb—the gesture of the Roman circus. "You like that?" said Beecher, when once more they were in the automobile and the din and oppression of cell-like monstrosities had receded. "I do," Gunther replied, locking and unlocking his broad hands. "Horrible!"