r than the young, and very often his father was
asleep in the stifling darkness which made sleep for him impossible.

The usual New York thunder-storms rolled up over Staten Island, covered
the southwest with inky gloom, veined the horizon with lightning, then
burst in spectacular fury over the panting city, drenched it to its
steel foundations, and passed on rumbling up the Hudson, leaving
scarcely any relief behind it.

In one of these sudden thunder-storms he took refuge in a rather modest
and retired restaurant just off Fifth Avenue; and it being the luncheon
hour he made a convenience of necessity and looked about for a table,
and discovered Rosalie Dysart and Delancy Grandcourt en tete-a-tete over
their peach and grapefruit salad.

There was no reason why they should not have been there; no reason why
he should have hesitated to speak to them. But he did hesitate--in fact,
was retiring by the way he came, when Rosalie glanced around with that
instinct which divines a familiar presence, gave him a startled look,
coloured promptly to her temples, and recovered her equanimity with a
smile and a sign for him to join them. So he shook hands, but remained
standing.

"We ran into town in the racer this morning," she explained. "Delancy
had something on down-town and I wanted to look over some cross-saddles
they made for me at Thompson's. Do be amiable and help us eat our salad.
What a ghastly place town is in September! It's bad enough in the
country this year; all the men wear long faces and mutter dreadful
prophecies. Can you tell me, Duane, what all this doleful talk is
about?"

"It's about something harder to digest than this salad. The public
stomach is ostrichlike, but it can't stand the water-cure. Which is all
Arabic to you, Rosalie, and I don't mean to be impertinent, only the
truth is I don't know why people are losing confidence in the financial
stability of the country, but they apparently are."

"There's a devilish row on down-town," observed Delancy, blinking, as an
unusually heavy clap of thunder rattled the dishes.

"What kind of a row?" asked Duane.

"Greensleeve & Co. have failed, with liabilities of a million and
microscopical assets."

Rosalie raised her eyebrows; Greensleeve & Co. were once brokers for her
husband if she remembered correctly. Duane had heard of them but was
only vaguely impressed.

"Is that rather a bad thing?" he inquired.

"Well--I don't know. It made a noise louder t