's been gunning for me for years since that Alabama
scrap in which he got knocked out. Now he's gunning for all of us."

"Why?" demanded Wimperley.

"Because I have the present privilege of being associated with you. I
had it privately from perfectly reliable sources. Marsham's looking
for a hole in the Consolidated, and if he finds one he's going to get
busy and you know what that means. So far we're all right because
we've got the Dutch farmer behind us and his money is coming in, in a
good steady trickle. It's our job to keep it trickling till we get out
of the woods into which our prophet has led us."

Wimperley nodded gravely. "That sounds good to me. But I've got
something else in my mind."

"Well," snapped Birch, "spit it out."

"I've got to go back a bit to a day you'll all remember, except you,
Birch."

"The day of hypnosis?" suggested Stoughton.

"I guess it was, if you like to put it that way. We were satisfied
with what Clark told us and what we afterwards saw for ourselves, and
we found him three millions, then another and another and so on. Now,
as it stands and as it goes, I don't see any end to this thing. It's
like throwing money into the rapids at St. Marys--a fresh sweep of
water comes and carries it away. You see it glint for a moment and
there's apparently no bottom to the river. The trouble with Clark is
that he is not equipped with brakes. He can't stop. He's always the
roof on one station and, at the same time, contracting for another one
still further on. We've got to do the braking, that's all." He turned
to Riggs, "How about it?"

"Well," said the little man out of the corner of his mouth. "It's our
funeral just as much as Clark's. Why didn't we apply the brakes long
ago?"

"You know as well as I do."

"I'm damned if I do."

"It's just because we're better business men in Philadelphia than we
are when we get to St. Marys," grunted Stoughton reflectively. "We're
outside the charmed circle down here, but when we get up there," he
waved his hand, while the end of his cigar glowed like a miniature
volcano, "we get locoed, the whole bunch of us."

"And yet," said Birch reflectively, "there's nothing the matter."

Wimperley leaned forward. "Go on."

"It's simple enough, we're not using Clark properly."

"Isn't seven millions proper?" boomed Stoughton.

"You don't get me," Birch spoke in a thin dry voice totally devoid of
any emphasis. "The proper use of a ma