"Angry? Not at all. Aren’t you claiming a little too much?" And the other, a warm, yielding desire to blurt out frankly: "Yes, I was angry. I wanted to see you." She waited. Her large eyes, seeming larger in the dim light of the carriage, continued steadily on him. The first impulse dominated the second, but was modified by it. "Angry? What a curious idea!" he began, with a half laugh. "You were so upset—" She interrupted him, shaking her head. "Why did you act the way you did tonight? Don’t do things that are not like you. That is not the way we began." He was silent, not knowing what to answer. Presently she withdrew into her corner, glanced out of the window, as if to assure herself that they were near their destination, and, placing her hand over his, said gently: "You are very sympathetic to me. Keep it so." For all that he said to himself that it was his favor with other women that made him precious to her, he felt a certain yielding of the spirit. He wondered if he could take her in his arms; but he restrained himself, and closed his two hands over hers. "Yes, we are very sympathetic," he said; but he did not say all he meant. "What a foolish boy you are," she said finally, looking up at him. "Don’t you know that if I say one word you will go wherever I want you to?" He was so taken by surprise at the audacity and confidence of her remark, that he could not collect himself for an answer, outgeneraled by the woman who had so calculated to a nicety her last words that the arrival of the automobile left him without response. He went home, repeating to himself what she had asserted, resisting a wild desire to return to the Lindaburys’ and forget there the disorder in his soul; and, though he rebelled scornfully against her confident assertion, the incessant repetition of it did leave an impression. As he passed the great marble façade of the Atlantic Trust, an unusual sight made him bend out of the window. In the chill gray of the coming dawn, a thin line of depositors was waiting, some standing, others huddled on campstools. At the sight the seriousness of life smote him, and he returned home, the tremulous turns of the human gamble he had played feverishly blended and confused with the dark realities of the rising tragedy of speculation. *CHAPTER X* When, the next morning, Beecher struggled out of a profound stupor, it was to be awakened by the sounds of Bo Lynch at the telephone. He rolled out of bed after a startled gaze at his watch, recalling in a flash the incidents of the night before. As he emerged he heard the final phrase, and the click of the released receiver: "Sell at once—throw them over." Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in the other, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly: "Morning." "How late did you stay?" asked Beecher.