“The subsequent winding up of this famous conspiracy may be stated in few words. But no account could possibly be complete which failed to reproduce in full the story of Mr. Fisk’s last interview with Mr. Corbin, as told by Fisk himself. ‘I went down to the neighborhood of Wall street Friday morning, and the history of that morning you know. When I got back to our office, you can imagine I was in no enviable state of mind, and the moment I got up street that afternoon I started right around to old Corbin’s to rake him out. I went into the room and sent word that Mr. Fisk wanted to see him in the dining-room. I was too mad to say anything civil, and when he came into the room, said I, ‘You damned old scoundrel, do you know what you have done here, you and your people?’ He began to wring his hands, and ‘Oh!’ he says, ‘this is a horrible position. Are you ruined?’ I said I didn’t know whether I was or not; and I asked him again if he knew what had happened? He had been crying, and said he had just heard; that he had been sure everything was all right, but that something had occurred entirely different from what he had anticipated. Said I, ‘That don’t amount to anything; we know that gold ought not to be at 31, and that it would not be but for such performances as you have had this last week; you know damned well it would not if you had not failed.’ I knew that somebody had run a saw right into us, and said I, ‘This whole damned thing has turned out just as I told you it would.’ I considered the whole party a pack of cowards, and I expected that when we came to clear our hands they would sock it right into us. I said to him, ‘I don’t know whether you have lied or not, and I don’t know what ought to be done with you.’ He was on the other side of the table, weeping and wailing, and I was gnashing my teeth. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘you must quiet yourself.’ I told him I didn’t want to be quiet. I had no desire to ever be quiet again, and probably never should be quiet again. He says, ‘But, my dear sir, you will lose your reason.’ Says I, ‘Speyers’ (a broker employed by him that day) ‘has already lost his reason; reason has gone out of everybody but me.’ I continued, ‘Now what are you going to do? You have got us into this thing, and what are you going to do to get out of it?’ He says, ‘I don’t know. I will go and get my wife.’ I said, ‘Get her down here.’ The soft talk was all over. He went up stairs and they returned, tottling into the room, looking older than Stephen Hopkins. His wife and he both looked like death. He was tottling just like that. (Illustrated by a trembling movement of the body.) ‘I have never seen him from that day to this.’