them even belonged to the Pyramid; and the financial disasters of that
summer and winter had spared no club in the five boroughs and no
membership list had been immune from the sinister consequences of a
crash that had resounded from ocean to ocean and had set humble and
great scurrying to cover in every Bourse of the civilised world.

* * * * *

As he entered the dining-room and passed to his usual table, he caught
sight of Delancy Grandcourt lunching alone at the table directly behind
him.

"Hello, Delancy," he said; "shall we join forces?"

"I'd be glad to; it's very kind of you, Duane," replied Grandcourt,
showing his pleasure at the proposal in the direct honesty of his
response. Few men considered it worth while to cultivate Grandcourt. To
lunch with him was a bore; a tete-a-tete with him assumed the
proportions of a visitation; his slowness and stupidity had become
proverbial in that club; and yet almost the only foundation for it had
been Dysart's attitude toward him; and men's estimate of him was the
more illogical because few men really cared for Dysart's opinions. But
Dysart had introduced him, elected him, and somehow had contrived to
make the public accept his half-sneering measure of Grandcourt as
Grandcourt's true stature. And the man, being shy, reticent, slow to
anger, slower still to take his own part, was tolerated and
good-humouredly avoided when decently possible. So much for the average
man's judgment of an average man.

Seated opposite to Duane, Grandcourt expressed his pleasure at seeing
him with a simplicity that touched the other. Then, in perfectly good
taste, but with great diffidence, he spoke of Duane's bereavement.

For a little while they asked and answered those amiably formal
questions convention requires under similar circumstances; then Duane
spoke of Dysart gravely, because new rumours were rife concerning him,
even a veiled hint of possible indictment and arrest.

"I hope not," said Grandcourt, his heavy features becoming troubled; "he
is a broken man, and no court and jury can punish him more severely than
he has been punished. Nor do I know what they could get out of him. He
has nothing left; everything he possessed has been turned over. He sits
all day in a house that is no longer his, doing nothing, hoping nothing,
hearing nothing, except the childish babble of his old father or the
voices from the hall below, where his servants are fightin