"By the way, if you’re a friend of Miss Charters’, find out if she has any money invested in Wall Street, and who she’s dealing through." "Does it mean a panic?" said Beecher, surprised. "Do you mean she ought to get out?" "Too late," said McKenna. "Find out what I asked you. I’m in a hurry. Say good-night to Mr. Gunther for me. And, say, if you’re so interested in this case, get him to put you wise to Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood." He gave a quick nod, and mingled in the crowd about the north entrance. Beecher watched him with a feeling of disillusionment. The detective had expressed no opinion, had brought to bear on the problem none of the instantaneous analysis which he had expected; in fact, had deliberately avoided even a discussion of the natural probabilities. Had this complete reticence been associated with an individuality of impressive oddity, he would have perhaps regarded it with respect. As it was, he was conscious only of being defrauded as though some one were tearing away a precious illusion. "There’s a poor devil; got all his money tied up in the Atlantic Trust," said Gunther, joining him and passing out to the waiting automobile. "The Atlantic Trust can’t fail," said Beecher, amazed. "Things aren’t as bad as that." "Don’t know. Lots of queer things have been worked lately. Anyhow, what’s bound to happen is—I should say—a receivership and closed doors to-morrow." "But that means panic." "Sure." Beecher was silent a while. He thought of Majendie of the night before, correct, restrained, prodigal of small courtesies. "By Jove, how game he was!" he said aloud. "I should hate to think there was anything crooked in him." They had reached Forty-second Street in their smooth and rapid flight. There, newsboys were shrieking the latest extra, dodging under the heads of horses, swinging on the steps of surface-cars, bumping their shrill way through the crowd, with their hysterical instinct for heightening the effect of a sensation. Gunther stopped the automobile and bought a handful of papers which a dozen urchins fought to press into his hands. On every sheet, front page, accompanied by sudden scare-heads, was the photograph of Bernard L. Majendie, whose resignation had been demanded and accepted. The two scanned the pages for additional details. Some papers hinted at criminal actions—the district attorney had been suddenly summoned to town. Scattered through the sheets were photographs entitled, "Majendie’s Palace on Fifth Avenue." "$100,000 Yacht of Deposed President." "Newport Estate of Millionaire." "Is he a crook after all?" said Beecher, flinging down the extra.