gues against property interests, and he
was with property, even a little property--even a miserable little
dribble of property like half a million dollars' worth of waterworks
bonds.

And Robert Hendricks--playfellow of John Barclay's boyhood, partner
of his youth--sat working throughout the night, a brave man, going
into battle without a tremor. He went through his books, made out
statements of his business relations, prepared directions for the
heads of his different concerns, as a man would do who might be going
on a long journey. For above everything, Robert Hendricks was
foresighted. He prepared for emergencies first, and tried to avoid
them afterwards. And with the thought of the smallness of this life in
his soul, he looked up from his work to see the hard gray lines of the
dawn in the street outside of his office, bringing the ugly details
from the shadows that hid them during the day, and he sighed as he
wondered in what bourne he should see the next dawn break.

It was a busy day for Robert Hendricks, that next day, and through it
all his mind was planning every moment of the time how he could
protect Molly Brownwell. Did he work in the bank, behind his work his
mind was seeking some outlet from his prison. If he went over the
power-house at the electric plant, always he was looking among the
wheels for some way of refuge for Molly. When he spent an hour in the
office of the wholesale grocery house, he despatched a day's work, but
never for a second was his problem out of his head. He spent two hours
with his lawyers planning the suit against the water company, pointing
out new sources of evidence, and incidentally leaving a large check to
pay for the work. But through it all Molly Brownwell's good name was
ever before him, and when he thought how twenty years before he had
walked through another day planning, scheming, and contriving, all to
produce the climax of calamity that was hovering over her to-day, he
was sick and faint with horror and self-loathing.

But as the day drew to its noon, Hendricks began to feel a persistent
detachment from the world about him. It floated across his
consciousness, like the shadow anchor of some cloud far above him. He
began to watch the world go by. He seemed not to be a part of it. He
became a spectator. At four o'clock he passed Dolan on the street and
said, absently, "I want you to-night at the bank at seven o'clock
sharp--don't forget, it's very important."

As he