w it was over and because he had
followed Hamilton Burton with his own small fortunes as a camp-follower
trails an army corps, he knew that he was wiped out and ruined. Hamilton
might lose many millions, and "come back," but he and many like him were
irretrievably done for.

One day when Hamilton had been ill for a week and had not yet emerged
from the distorted land of delirium, Tom Burton strolled, as immaculate
and well groomed as ever, into the National Union Club, and looked about
for a bridge quorum of his cronies. The doctors held out hope and the
father sought relaxation from anxiety. His face was flushed, for old
Thomas Burton, too, had felt sorely the strain of these days, and had
sought his own means of dulling apprehension's edge. His brain was not
versatile in such matters.

General Penfrit occupied his customary chair by a Fifth-avenue window,
and the newcomer smiled with pleasure to find him there. General Penfrit
shared many interests with him, and was willing to share as many more,
so long as Thomas Burton's bridge game continued to be of the
contributory type.

Burton strolled over, swinging his stick, and nodded with a bland smile,
but to his dismay the general glanced up and acknowledged the greeting
without warmth. Perhaps his old friend was not feeling well today.

"I was wondering," suggested Burton, "whether we couldn't arrange a
little rubber." He caught the eye of a waiter at the same moment and
beckoned. "What will yours be, general?" he genially inquired.

"I don't believe I care to play." The voice was chilling at the start
and became more icy with each added syllable, "and I won't have anything
to drink."

Tom Burton stood looking down somewhat blankly.

"Nothing to drink?" he repeated in a perfectly warrantable astonishment.
His ears must have tricked him.

The general rose stiffly. "With you--no," he spoke curtly, and took
himself away with a waddle of studied dignity. For a full minute
Hamilton Burton's father gazed vacantly out at the avenue, then he
turned on his heel. Henry O'Horrissy was just entering the door and with
him were two other members of a little group which had lunched and
chatted and played bridge inseparably for several years. Each knew all
the others' anecdotes and could laugh at the proper moments. They formed
one of those small cliques of intimates into which this club resolved
itself, and Tom Burton was of their valued brotherhood.

"Good-afternoon, gentl