Simeon sighed with relief upon the departure of his family and began a fresh cigar. On the whole, his day had been rather too domestic. He was quite pleased when Cecil, having apparently by accident broached the subject of the Dry Goods Trust, proceeded to exhibit a minute curiosity concerning the past, the present, and the future of the greatest of all the Rainshore enterprises. “Are you thinking of coming in?” Simeon demanded at length, pricking up his ears. “No,” said Cecil, “I’m thinking of going out. The fact is, I haven’t mentioned it before, but I’m ready to sell a very large block of shares.” “The deuce you are!” Simeon exclaimed. “And what do you call a very large block?” “Well,” said Cecil, “it would cost me nearly half a million to take them up now.” “Dollars?” “Pounds sterling. Twenty-five thousand shares, at 95-3/8.” Rainshore whistled two bars of “Follow me!” from “The Belle of New York.” “Is this how you amuse yourself at Ostend?” he inquired. Cecil smiled: “This is quite an exceptional transaction. And not too profitable, either.” “But you can’t dump that lot on the market,” Simeon protested. “Yes, I can,” said Cecil. “I must, and I will. There are reasons. You yourself wouldn’t care to handle it, I suppose?” The president of the Trust pondered. “I’d handle it at 93-3/8,” he answered quietly. “Oh, come! That’s dropping two points!” said Cecil, shocked. “A minute ago you were prophesying a further rise.” Rainshore’s face gleamed out momentarily in the darkness as he puffed at his cigar. “If you must unload,” he remarked, as if addressing the red end of the cigar, “I’m your man at 93-3/8.” Cecil argued: but Simeon Rainshore never argued--it was not his method. In a quarter of an hour the younger man had contracted to sell twenty-five thousand shares of a hundred dollars each in the United States Dry Goods Trust at two points below the current market quotation, and six and five-eighths points below par. The hoot of an outgoing steamer sounded across the city. “I must go,” said Cecil. “You’re in a mighty hurry,” Simeon complained. IV. Five minutes later Cecil was in his own rooms at the Hôtel de la Plage. Soon there was a discreet knock at the door. “Come in, Lecky,” he said. It was his servant who entered, the small, thin man with very mobile eyes and of no particular age, who, in various capacities and incarnations--now as liftman, now as financial agent, now as no matter what--assisted Cecil in his diversions. “Mr. Vaux-Lowry really did go by the boat, sir.” “Good. And you have given directions about the yacht?” “The affair is in order.” “And you’ve procured one of Mr. Rainshore’s Homburg hats?” “It is in your dressing-room. There was no mark of identification on it. So, in order to smooth the difficulties of the police when they find it on the beach, I have taken the liberty of writing Mr. Rainshore’s name on the lining.”