ame up from below, and the moonlight fell in a broad band
of radiance on the foaming ribbon of the wake.

"I have also considered that point," he said at last. "Burton has two
cardinal maxims of finance. One is that Securities are usually sold
above their intrinsic worth. The other is that Cash alone is an
absolutely stable form of property. Acting on these two principles, he
is doubtless building to the logical end. Some day he will make another
raid--and, if he is allowed to select the day and the conditions, it
will be a panic-making raid. If an enemy's attack is inevitable the best
defense is offense. There is no wisdom in giving him time to prepare.
Every day we stand idle his power grows. We must show enough strength at
the next meeting of our stock-holders to reorganize the Coal and Ore
directorate."

Harrison rose and walked to the rail. He stood for a moment looking out,
then came back and spoke quickly.

"If this is to be done we should let no more time slip by. It's a safe
bet that he isn't wasting days."

Malone's fist crashed down on the arm of his chair. He rose, too, and
paced backward and forward, talking as he walked.

"Waste time! By heaven, we must waste no minute. We must go after him
and bring in his pelt. We must treat him like a wolf prowling around our
sheep-folds. There can be no peace for any of us until he is destroyed
... and, damn him, I mean to see that it's done!"

The others watched the broad shoulders of the head baron and the
resolute carriage of the head, thrown back as if in challenge. He paused
once to relight the cigar which in his vehemence he had let die, and as
the match flared they saw that his eyes blazed and his features were set
in that wrath which the Street feared.

"By heaven," exclaimed Malone fiercely, "we've got to smash him--damn
him!"

CHAPTER XIII

Mary Burton was discovering some things about June. She had often
watched lovers leaning silently on a deck-rail, with eyes fixed on a
moonlit wake and hands that crept surreptitiously together. She had
envied the credulity of these people and turned away with an ache and
emptiness in her own heart.

Now at twenty-five she awoke each morning with a smile for the sunlight
and a proprietary joy in the blue of the skies and a delight for the
roses whose hearts were no younger than her own had become.
Bridge-tables and tennis courts saw little of her, because the woods
were waiting and Jefferson Edwardes w