of homes in panic
everywhere, of all ideals of brotherhood shaken, bending, tottering--war
broke out in Europe.

"What is this going to mean to me?"

Millions of people were asking that. And so did Roger and Deborah. The same
night they left for New York, while Edith with a sigh of relief settled
back into her family.

* * * * *

The next morning at his office Roger found John waiting with misery stamped
on his face. John had paid small heed to war. Barely stopping for sleep in
the last two days he had gone through scores and hundreds of papers,
angrily skipping all those names of kings and emperors and czars, and
searching instead for American names, names of patrons--business! Gone!
Each hour he had been opening mail and piling up letters cancelling
contracts, ordering service discontinued.

Roger sat down at his desk. As he worked and figured and dictated letters,
glancing into the outer rooms he saw the long rows of girls at tables
obviously trying to pretend that there was work for them to do. He felt
them anxiously watching him--as in other offices everywhere millions of
other employees kept furtively glancing at their chiefs.

"War," he thought. "Shall I close _down?_" He shrank from what it would
mean to those girls. "Business will pick up again soon. A few
days--weeks--that's all I need."

And he went to his bank. No credit there. He tried other sources, all he
could think of, racking his brains as he went about town, but still he
could not raise a loan. Finally he went to the firm which had once held a
mortgage on his house. The chief partner had been close to Bruce, an old
college friend. And when even this friend refused him aid, "It's a question
of Bruce's children," Roger muttered, reddening. He felt like a beggar, but
he was getting desperate. The younger man had looked away and was nervously
tapping his desk with his pen.

"Bad as that, eh," he answered. "Then I guess it's got to be done." He
looked anxiously up at Roger, who just at that moment appeared very old.
"Don't worry, Mr. Gale," he said. "Somehow or other we'll carry you
through."

"Thank you, sir." Roger rose heavily, feeling weak, and took his departure.
"This is war," he told himself, "and I've got to look after my own."

But he had a sensation almost of guilt, as upon his return to his office he
saw those suddenly watchful faces. He walked past them and went into his
room, and again he searched for