ing her eyes to the white rectangle in her hand, "is
Webb. Shall I send him out here?"

Weldon put the child down from his knees and half rose.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat, "send him out here. And keep the
children away."

So this was it. It had not been for nothing, that dream.

The tall, lank figure was before him, the ironical smile drooped on the
tight lips. Ten years had left him as they found him, but for a
thought of grey in the sandy hair.

"Sit down," said Weldon briefly, "what is it?"

"You've put on a little weight, I see," said Webb, nodding at the
proffered chair, "but that's only proper in the president of a bank, I
suppose. You've done well, Mr. Weldon."

Weldon bowed.

"You did not come to Bermuda to tell me this, Mr. Webb, I think?"

"No," said Webb, "I didn't. Ten years ago, Mr. Weldon, you called me a
mind-reader when I had put two and two together once or twice, put
myself in your place for ten minutes, complimented you by assuming that
your course had been what mine would have been, and spoken to you
accordingly. Can't you do a little mind-reading on your own account,
now?"

"I confess myself unequal to it," Weldon said coldly.

Webb nodded indulgently.

"All right," he returned, "we'll take it that way, if you want to. Mr.
Weldon, I don't know if you read our papers down here at all?"

"I have never opened an American newspaper since I left the country,"
said Weldon briefly.

"I see. I suppose you know that Blickenstern's dying, though?"

"Yes," Weldon answered indifferently, "we all know that, of course."

"Yes. Well, Mr. Weldon, I'm supposed to inherit his shoes. It's not
much to you, of course, but a lot to me--and to a lot of other people,
too. Now for something you don't know. In just about five days, Mr.
Weldon, we're going to break through the crust and drop into the
biggest panic since '93. That and Blickenstern's death--he must go
soon, now--and this fearful railroad business--I won't bore you--will
put me into a bad hole. A worse hole, I don't mind telling you, Mr.
Weldon, than Blick's successor can afford to get into. It's all a
matter of balance now; pretty fine balancing, too, for the next week.
In six weeks there'll be enough for most of us, but just now--well,
there'll be dozens of us in the Street who'll be grateful for ten
thousand in cash around the corner. Think of it--ten thousand! Now
I'll be short. I need some money--not stage mo