their accounts. In vain Mr. Clifford assured them there was no fear
of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. In cases like these
the panic cannot be allayed by words.

As long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the
counter; but this could not go on. Mr. Clifford himself was in the dark
as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. Soon
after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty
the bank was cleared and the doors closed. But the crowd did not
disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that
the Old Bank had stopped!

It was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that Phebe turned
into Whitefriars Road. She had taken a train from Upchurch, leaving her
father to return home alone with the empty wagon. It was a strange sight
which met her. The usually quiet street was thronged from end to end,
and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. Even on the
outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with
anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through
to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. A
strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a
delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and
son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they
could. Phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance
movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the
side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. A scared-looking
man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as
soon as he recognized who she was.

"It's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where;
and old Acton's poisoned himself. Nobody dare tell Mrs. Sefton; but
Madame knows. She is in the dining-room, Miss Marlowe."

Phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel
window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of
nervous agitation. As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face
she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of
tears and sobs.

"My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he
be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be
satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know
Roland; he is so popular. The servants say th