“Well, it stopped nine thousand telephones, and put over two hundred stock-tickers out of business, and cut off nearly five hundred of the Postal-Union wires, and left all lower New York without even fire-alarm service. That’s saying nothing of the out-of-town wires, and the long distance service,—did you get all that?” “Perfectly.” “Well, there’s a lot more to tell, but it will keep—say till Thursday night. You may be able to imagine just what it is, from what I’ve told you; but listen: I think I can open your eyes, when you get here!” he repeated, slowly and significantly. “All right—even a Great Western wire might have ears, you know!” she warned him. “Quite so, but how about your Savannah information? There’s nothing new?” “Nothing. But you saw the newspaper stories?” “The Herald yesterday said the Secretary of Agriculture had demanded from the Savannah Cotton Exchange the name of a wire-house that bulletined a government crop report thirty minutes ahead of the official release.” “Yes, that’s Dunlap & Company. They are frantic. They still declare there was no leak, and are fighting it out with the department here at Washington. In the meantime, luckily for us, they are, of course, sending out press-statements saying it was all a coincidence between their firm’s private crop-estimate and the actual government report. I couldn’t give you much of a margin of time to work on.” “That thirty minutes just gave me time to get in on the up-town quotations. I missed the lower office, of course.” “Hadn’t we better hold this over?” “Yes; I rather forgot—it’ll wait until you get here.” “Then Thursday night, at eight, say, at the Grenoble!” “No, no; make it nine forty-five—I don’t get away until then.” “What would the Grenoble people say?” “That’s so—you had better go to the Ralston. It’s free and easy. Yes, the Ralston,” he repeated. “The Ralston, at nine forty-five, Thursday. Good-bye!” A moment later he could hear the frantic signal-bell again. “Hello! Hello! What is it?” “Hello, New York! Not through yet,” said the tired and nasal voice of the operator. “You forgot something!” It was the contralto voice this time, reproachful and wounded. Durkin laughed a little as he leaned closer to the mouth-piece of his transmitter. “Good-bye, dearest!” he said. “Good-bye, my beloved own!” answered the wire, across its hundreds of miles of star-strewn midnight. Durkin hung up his receiver with a sigh, and stopped at the office to pay his bill. All that was worth knowing and having, all that life held, seemed withdrawn and engulfed in space. He felt grimly alone in a city out of which all reality had ebbed. It seemed to him that somewhere a half-heard lilt of music had suddenly come to a stop.