Hoisting Kollock over his shoulder, he stepped into the log-polished trough. For a fraction of a second he seemed to stand motionless, straight as a dart, a striking figure against that background of lurid crimson. Then, still remaining upright, he shot downward at an angle like a person sliding on ice, to plunge with a great splash into the icy water. CHAPTER XVI. THE VERGE OF RUIN Stepping hastily from his car, John Tweedy hurried across the sidewalk, and entered the lobby of the Bangor House. His plump face had an oddly sunken, pasty look. The jowls were pendulous, and there were dark rings under the eyes. His whole manner, in fact, was that of a man on the verge of a nervous collapse, holding himself together by sheer determination of will. Inside the door he paused a moment, staring almost furtively to right and left, as if the ruin he knew to be so imminent was already a matter of public knowledge and comment. The fairly well-filled lobby held a number of familiar faces, whose owners either did not or would not see the stout man. Tweedy made sure that the slight was intentional, and a nervous tremor quivered on his lips. “Bah!” he muttered, hastening on toward the desk, “They’re beginning to cut me. After the fire last night they think I’m out for more credit. It’s the beginning of the end.” To his supersensitive mind the very desk clerk, who had so often laughed obsequiously at the lumber magnate’s jokes and pocketed with effusive thanks his expensive cigars, delayed purposely in attending him. It was the subtle impertinence of an inferior which seems to cut so much more deeply than any other kind, and it stung Tweedy into a momentary flash of his old spirit. “Griggs!” he snapped, in a voice which brought the clerk instantly forward. “I have an appointment to meet Mr. Bainbridge here at twelve,” he went on, transfixing the young man with an icy stare. “Has he left any word for me?” Before the flushed, embarrassed youth could answer, a hand dropped lightly on Tweedy’s shoulder, and a cheery, familiar voice sounded in his ear: “Well, John, you’re certainly on the dot. Put it there, old man! I’m mighty glad to see you.” It was Bob, clean, fresh, and well groomed. His eyes sparkled, the glow of health was in his cheeks. There was an air of vigor and physical fitness about him which made Tweedy stare in bewilderment, wondering whether his partner was made of iron. “I’m certainly glad to see you, Bobby,” he echoed, gripping the strong, brown fingers. “I don’t know how you can stand the pace, though. I’m about all in sitting up most of the night trying to figure out our losses from the incomplete----” “Just one second, John,” interrupted Bainbridge, and only then was his partner aware of the pleasant-faced, rather distinguished-appearing, gray-haired man who stood just behind the young lumberman. “I want you to meet Mr. Wolcott Sears, of Boston. He’s been up in the woods fishing, and we got acquainted up there.”