"What is the clue McKenna’s got hold of?" he thought eagerly, as the massive, cheery windows of the club came into view across the stirring, care-fleeing homeward rush of the Avenue. The moment he entered the crowded anteroom, the tragic day returned with redoubled gloom. The death of Majendie oppressed every voice—nothing else was discussed. He found himself caught up in the crowd at the bar, listening with a strange sense of irony to those who touched in haphazard the event which he knew so profoundly. The wildest rumors were current. Majendie had shot himself after the discovery of an enormous shortage in the funds of the Atlantic Trust. The Atlantic Trust had been looted, the effect on Wall Street had been to confirm the wildest rumors, the market would plunge down to-morrow, the awful loss of the day would be surpassed; it was the panic of ’93 over again. The inevitable mysterious informant in the crowd arrived with a new rumor: Majendie had tried to escape, had been prevented by detectives, who had been shadowing him for days, and had then gone in and shot himself just as the warrant for his arrest arrived. Another gave this version; Majendie had not shot himself, he had been murdered. Every one exclaimed at this. "That’s the story in the Associated Press offices," continued the informant obstinately. "A man whose whole fortune was locked up in the Atlantic—a small depositor—got into the house on some pretext, and shot him—crazy, of course. It’s not been verified, but that’s the story." "Tell you what I heard," said another, in a low voice, to a group that eddied about him. "It’s true he was shot, but he wasn’t shot in his own home. He was shot last night in his box at the opera by a man who is as well known as old Fontaine. The old story, of course, trespassing in married quarters. The whole thing was kept dark—got him out of the box after the crowd went out, and took him home, where he died at midnight. Heard the names in the case, but pledged not to repeat them." Each rumor received a momentary credence, in the excitement of the moment. Some one defending the personal friend, insisted on melancholia and despondency, citing the example of an uncle who had taken his life after the disgrace of his son. No one spoke the name of Mrs. Bloodgood, waiting the moment of confidences _à trois_. In the stupefaction of the moment, even the personal losses, which had been tremendous, were momentarily forgotten. Gradually inquiries began to be made as to the extent of the panic. Then at once a division was apparent. There was already the party of the shorts, eager and vociferous, staking their last chance of recouping on a still wider spread of the devastating drop, which they now as ardently desired as though a thousand homes would not suffer for every point acquired.