cked at the change
in Dysart's face. Haggard, thin, snow-white at the temples with the
light in his eyes almost extinct, the very precision and freshness of
linen and clothing brutally accentuated the ravaged features.

"What questions?" demanded Dysart, still standing, and without any
emotion whatever in either voice or manner.

"The first is this: are you in communication with my father concerning
mining stock known as Yo Espero?"

"I am."

"Is my father involved in any business transactions in which you figure,
or have figured?"

"There are some. Yes."

"Is the Cascade Development and Securities Co. one of them?"

"Yes, it is."

Duane's lips were dry with fear; he swallowed, controlled the rising
anger that began to twitch at his throat, and went on in a low, quiet
voice:

"Is this man--Moebus--connected with any of these transactions in which
you and--and my father are interested?"

"Yes."

"Is Klawber?"

"Max Moebus, Emanuel Klawber, James Skelton, and Amos Flack are
interested. Is that what you want to know?"

Duane looked at him, stunned. Dysart stepped nearer, speaking almost in
a whisper:

"Well, what about it? Once I warned you to keep your damned nose out of
my personal affairs----"

"I make some of them mine!" said Duane sharply; "when crooks get hold of
an honest man, every citizen is a policeman!"

Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in a vicelike grip:

"Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!" he breathed. "My father is in
the next room. Do you want to kill him?"

At the same moment there came a stir from the room beyond, the tap-tap
of a cane and shuffling steps across the polished parquet. Dysart's grip
relaxed, his hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a little
old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling to the doorway. He was
small and dapper and pink-skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his
lips and eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand dangled a
monocle.

Jack Dysart made a ghastly and supreme effort:

"I was just saying to Duane, father, that all this financial agitation
is bound to blow over by December--Duane Mallett, father!"--as the old
man raised his eye-glass and peeped up at the young fellow--"you know
his father, Colonel Mallett."

"Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!" piped the old beau. "How-de-do!
How-de-do-o-o! My son Jack and I motor every morning at this hour. It is
becoming a custom--he! he!--every day from ten