ed? Who suggested the
"bear" raid? Was it not Mr. Harley? The affair had been his; the loss
should be his; Mr. Harley must repay, or face the wrath of Storri.

"Face the wrath of Storri!" exclaimed that furious nobleman with an
oath. "He would face nobody--nothing! Bah! that Harley; he is a dog and
the coward son of a dog! Yes, he shall come here; he shall crawl and
crouch! I, Storri, will give him the treatment due a dog!"

Storri wrote a blunt word to Mr. Harley and dispatched it to that
shattered capitalist.

"Come to-night at nine, you Harley," said the note, "and do not presume
to fail, or my next communication will be through one of your officers
of police."

Storri was aware that the French shares were gone from him, but he
counted on easily tracking them and buying them back. He would force Mr.
Harley to give him the very money that was to buy them. The thought
lighted up his cruel face like a red ray from the pit; it would be such
a joke--such a triumph over the pig American! Meanwhile he would bully
Mr. Harley, who did not know but what the shares were in his pocket.

If Storri had been informed of how, through the deep arrangements of
that strategist of stocks, he had borrowed every dollar of those five
hundred thousand from Mr. Bayard, as well as every share of Northern
Consolidated delivered to perfect those sales that had brought him down
in ruin--in short, if he had been told the whole romance, from Mr.
Fopling's exhortation to "Bweak him!" to the close of the market on that
crashing Friday afternoon, he might have been less sure of recapturing
those French shares. But he was ignorant of those truths; and, with
confidence bred of ignorance, he summoned Mr. Harley. He, Storri, would
browbeat and bleed him; he would teach the caitiff Harley to be more
careful of the favor, not to say the fortune, of a Russian nobleman.

Mr. Harley, with the defeat of the "bear" attack on Northern
Consolidated, was left in forlornest case. He was aware that it spelled
money-ruin for both him and Senator Hanway; but the picture of the rage
of Storri, and what that savage might do in his bitterness, so filled up
his thoughts that he scarcely heeded anything beyond. Mr. Harley was
stricken sick by his own fears, and, after returning from New York on
the evening of that fearful Friday, never moved from his room. To the
anxious tap of Dorothy, he sent word that he was not ill, but very busy;
he must not be disturbed. Like S