"Joy, laughter, everything! I’m happy as a Croton water-bug on a hot marble slab!" At the bar, he gathered every one in sight, slapping them on their shoulders. His comrades looked at him with envy and awe, believing that he had profited by a tip to make a killing in the market. Their own enjoyment was little enough. The market, outdoing the day before, had plunged like a wild steer into the maelstrom of panic. A billion dollars had receded, scattered, evaporated in the mad day. The disaster had reached the whole country; every bank was threatened. The United States Treasury had been implored to come to the assistance of the country. Gunther, Fontaine, Marx, Haggerty, were in hourly conference; while before the swelling hurricane of fright, every paper was imploring its readers to stand firm. *CHAPTER XVI* The next day Beecher did not consider for a moment telephoning to Nan Charters, despite her last request. He felt that it was a chapter closed in his life—one of those innumerable false paths down which one plunges, only the quicker to return. His own serenity did not even surprise him. He went off for the morning to play rackets with Bruce Gunther, and lunched at the club with Tilton, who urged him to join his hunt, an invitation which he discussed with enthusiasm. The news from the stock market was the same—ten point losses in the early trading. Banks all over the country had suspended payments for a week in order to weather the storm. The panic had ceased to be one of speculative concern only. Every one was anxiously asking if a permanent blow had not been dealt to the industries of the country. Many freely prophesied that, if the downward rush were not checked within three days, it would take the country ten years to restore its shattered prosperity. There was a rumor that the big men of the Street had made up a fund, reaching to many millions, which would be brought on the morrow to the support of the market. The run on the Associated Trust still continued, checked though it was by delay and technicalities. Yet the fall of Slade was hourly predicted. Beecher lingered after luncheon, played a hundred points at billiards and won, an hour’s bridge and won again. Then he went off in high spirits to call on Emma Fornez, an appointment arranged over the telephone. "So, you bad boy, you and your little Charters have quarreled," said the prima donna, greeting him with an accusing smile, though in her voice was the pitch of the nervous excitement which her coming début that night had communicated. "Not in the least," he said, a little surprised at the insinuation. "Ta-ta-ta! Enough of your stuff and nonsense," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. "You are too big a simpleton—a little woman like that will always get the best of you." "But there is no quarrel, and I am not in the least interested."