to the little smoking-room here. Tell your sister--and say
I'm going to stop only a moment."

Sam had just left me when the butler came.

"Mr. Ball--I think that was the name, sir--wishes to speak to you on the
telephone."

I had given Ellerslys' as one of the places at which I might be found,
should it be necessary to consult me. I followed the butler to the
telephone closet under the main stairway. As soon as Ball made sure it was
I, he began:

"I'll use the code words. I've just seen Fearless, as you told me to."

Fearless--that was Mitchell, my spy in the employ of Tavistock, who was
my principal rival in the business of confidential brokerage for the high
financiers. "Yes," said I. "What does he say?"

"There has been a great deal of heavy buying for a month past."

Then my dread was well-founded--Textiles were to be deliberately rocketed.
"Who's been doing it?" I asked.

"He found out only this afternoon. It's been kept unusually dark. It--"

"Who? Who?" I demanded.

"Intrepid," he answered.

Intrepid--that is, Langdon--Mowbray Langdon!

"The whole thing--was planned carefully," continued Ball, "and is coming
off according to schedule. Fearless overheard a final message Intrepid's
brother brought from him to-day."

So it was no mischance--it was an assassination. Mowbray Langdon had
stabbed me in the back and fled.

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Ball. "Is that you?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Oh," came in a relieved tone from the other end of the wire. "You were so
long in answering that I thought I'd been cut off. Any instructions?"

"No," said I. "Good-by."

I heard him ring off, but I sat there for several minutes, the receiver
still to my ear. I was muttering: "Langdon, Langdon--why--why--why?" again
and again. Why had he turned against me? Why had he plotted to destroy
me--one of those plots so frequent in Wall Street--where the assassin
steals up, delivers the mortal blow, and steals away without ever being
detected or even suspected? I saw the whole plot now--I understood Tom
Langdon's activities, I recalled Mowbray Langdon's curious phrases and
looks and tones. But--why--why--why? How was I in his way?

It was all dark to me--pitch-dark. I returned to the smoking-room, lighted
a cigar, sat fumbling at the new situation. I was in no worse plight than
before--what did it matter who was attacking me? In the circumstances,
a novice could now destroy me as easily as a Langdon. Still, Ball's