the firm was identified, and from time to time hearing things not meant for his ears, being the truth regarding Wilson & Graves. But Fullerton F. Colwell had to do everything—in the stock market and in the office. He conducted the manipulation of the Wilson & Graves stocks, took charge of the un-nefarious part of the numerous pools formed by the firm’s customers—Mr. Graves attending to the other details—and had a hand in the actual management of various corporations. Also, he conferred with a dozen people daily—chiefly “big people,” in Wall Street parlance—who were about to “put through” stock-market “deals.” He had devoted his time, which was worth thousands, and his brain, which was worth millions, to disentangling his careless friend’s affairs, and when it was all over and every claim adjusted, and he had refused the executor’s fees to which he was entitled, it was found that poor Harry Hunt’s estate not only was free from debt, but consisted of $38,000 in cash, deposited in the Trolleyman’s Trust Company, subject to Mrs. Hunt’s order, and drawing interest at the rate of 2½ per cent per annum. He had done his work wonderfully well, and, in addition to the cash, the widow owned an unencumbered house Harry had given her in his lifetime. Not long after the settlement of the estate Mrs. Hunt called at his office. It was a very busy day. The bears were misbehaving—and misbehaving mighty successfully. Alabama Coal & Iron—the firm’s great specialty—was under heavy fire from “Sam” Sharpe’s Long Tom as well as from the room-traders’ Maxims. All that Colwell could do was to instruct Denton, who was on the ground, to “support” _Ala. C. & I._ sufficiently to discourage the enemy, and not enough to acquire the company’s entire capital stock. He was himself at that moment practising that peculiar form of financial dissimulation which amounts to singing blithely at the top of your voice when your beloved sackful of gold has been ripped by bear-paws and the coins are pouring out through the rent. Every quotation was of importance; a half inch of tape might contain an epic of disaster. It was not wise to fail to read every printed character. “Good morning, Mr. Colwell.” He ceased to pass the tape through his fingers, and turned quickly, almost apprehensively, for a woman’s voice was not heard with pleasure at an hour of the day when distractions were undesirable. “Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, very politely. “I am very glad indeed to see you. And how do you do?” He shook hands, and led her, a bit ceremoniously, to a huge armchair. His manners endeared him even to the big Wall Street operators, who were chiefly interested in the terse speech of the ticker. “Of course, you are very well, Mrs. Hunt. Don’t tell me you are not.” “Ye-es,” hesitatingly. “As well as I can hope to be since—since——” “Time alone, dear Mrs. Hunt, can help us. You must be very brave. It is what he would have liked.” “Yes, I know,” she sighed. “I suppose I must.”