Little by little the bonds continued to decline. The syndicate in charge was not ready to move them. But Mrs. Hunt’s unnamed friend—her Cousin Emily’s husband—who was employed in an up-town bank, did not know all the particulars of that deal. He knew the Street in the abstract, and had accordingly implanted the seed of insomnia in her quaking soul. Then, as he saw values decline, he did his best to make the seed grow, fertilizing a naturally rich soil with ominous hints and headshakings and with phrases that made her firmly believe he was gradually and considerately preparing her for the worst. On the third day of her agony Mrs. Hunt walked into Colwell’s office. Her face was pale and she looked distressed. Mr. Colwell sighed involuntarily—a scarcely perceptible and not very impolite sigh—and said: “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.” She nodded gravely and, with a little gasp, said, tremulously: “The bonds!” “Yes? What about them?” She gasped again, and said: “The p-p-papers!” “What do you mean, Mrs. Hunt?” She dropped into a chair nervelessly, as if exhausted. After a pause she said: “It’s in all the papers. I thought the _Herald_ might be mistaken, so I bought the _Tribune_ and the _Times_ and the _Sun_. But no. It was the same in all. It was,” she added, tragically, “93!” “Yes?” he said, smilingly. The smile did not reassure her; it irritated her and aroused her suspicions. By him, of all men, should her insomnia be deemed no laughing matter. “Doesn’t that mean a loss of $3,000?” she asked. There was a deny-it-if-you-dare inflection in her voice of which she was not conscious. Her cousin’s husband had been a careful gardener. “No, because you are not going to sell your bonds at 93, but at 110, or thereabouts.” “But if I did want to sell the bonds now, wouldn’t I lose $3,000?” she queried, challengingly. Then she hastened to answer herself: “Of course I would, Mr. Colwell. Even I can tell that.” “You certainly would, Mrs. Hunt; but——” “I knew I was right,” with irrepressible triumph. “But you are not going to sell the bonds.” “Of course, I don’t want to, because I can’t afford to lose any money, much less $3,000. But I don’t see how I can help losing it. I was warned from the first,” she said, as if that made it worse. “I certainly had no business to risk my all.” She had waived the right to blame some one else, and there was something consciously just and judicial about her attitude that was eloquent. Mr. Colwell was moved by it. “You can have your money back, Mrs. Hunt, if you wish it,” he told her, quite unprofessionally. “You seem to worry about it so much.”