ked at him. "That's supposed to be the excuse for our
coming.... Certainly; I'm your superintendent, back from a fortnight's
leave to get married in.... That's understood." ... And, stepping
nearer: "There's hell to pay in town. Have you seen the papers?"

"Not to-day's--"

"They're down-stairs. Wormly, Hunter & Blake have failed--liabilities
over three million. There's probably going to be a run on the Shoshone
Securities Company; Andreas Hogg and Gumble Brothers have laid down on
their own brokers and the Exchange has--"

"What!"

"A nice outlook, isn't it? Be careful what you say before Mrs. Malcourt;
she doesn't realise that Cardross, Carrick & Co. may be involved."

Portlaw said with that simple self-centred dignity which characterised
him in really solemn moments: "Thank God, I'm in an old-line institution
and own nothing that can ever pass a dividend!"

"Even your hens pay their daily dole," nodded Malcourt, eyeing him.

"Certainly. If they don't, it's a fricassee for theirs!" chuckled
Portlaw, in excellent humour over his own financial security in time of
stress.

So they descended to the living-room together where Constance and
Wayward stood whispering by the fire. Malcourt greeted them; they
exchanged a few words in faultless taste, then he picked an umbrella
from the rack and went across the lawn to his house where his bride of a
fortnight awaited him. Portlaw rubbed his pudgy hands together
contentedly.

"Now that Louis is back," he said to Wayward, "this place will be run
properly again."

"Is it likely," asked Wayward, "that a man who has just married several
millions will do duty as your superintendent in the backwoods?"

"Well," said Portlaw, with his head on one side, "do you know, it is
extremely likely. And I have a vague idea that he will draw his salary
with great regularity and promptness."

"What are you talking about?" said Wayward bluntly.

"I'll tell you. But young Mrs. Malcourt does not know--and she is not to
be told as long as it can be avoided: Cardross, Carrick & Co. are in a
bad way."

"How bad?"

"The worst--unless the Clearing House does something--"

"What!"

"--And it won't! Mark my words. Wayward, the Clearing House won't lift a
penny's weight from the load on their shoulders. _I_ know. There's a
string of banks due to blow up; the fuse has been lighted, and it's up
to us to stand clear--"

"Oh, hush!" whispered Constance in a frightened voice; the door swung