sperity. The panic blew itself out in two days, the
pieces were picked up, the bankrupts withdrew out of sight; the market
"recovered a normal tone."

While the brief delirium was yet subsiding there broke out a domestic
scandal in England that suddenly fixed the attention of two continents.
Next morning the Chicago Limited was wrecked, and the same day a notable
politician was shot down in cold blood by his wife's brother in the
streets of New Orleans. Within a week of its arising "the Manderson
story," to the trained sense of editors throughout the Union, was
"cold." The tide of American visitors pouring through Europe made eddies
round the memorial or statue of many a man who had died in poverty; and
never thought of their most famous plutocrat. Like the poet who died in
Rome, so young and poor, a hundred years ago, he was buried far away
from his own land; but for all the men and women of Manderson's people
who flock round the tomb of Keats in the cemetery under the Monte
Testaccio, there is not one, nor ever will be, to stand in reverence by
the rich man's grave beside the little church of Marlstone.

CHAPTER I

KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS

In the only comfortably furnished room in the offices of the _Record_,
the telephone on Sir James Molloy's table buzzed. Sir James made a
motion with his pen, and Mr. Silver, his secretary, left his work and
came over to the instrument.

"Who is that?" he said. "Who?... I can't hear you ... Oh, it's Mr.
Bunner, is it? Yes, but ... I know, but he's fearfully busy this
afternoon. Can't you ... Oh, really? Well, in that case--just hold on,
will you?"

He placed the receiver before Sir James. "It's Calvin Bunner, Sigsbee
Manderson's right hand man," he said concisely. "He insists on speaking
to you personally. Says it is the gravest piece of news. He is talking
from the house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to speak
clearly."

Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, and took up the
receiver. "Well?" he said in his strong voice; and listened. "Yes," he
said. The next moment Mr. Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of
amazement and horror. "Good God," murmured Sir James. Clutching the
instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear intently. At
intervals he repeated, "Yes." Presently, as he listened, he glanced at
the clock, and spoke quickly to Mr. Silver over the top of the
transmitter. "Go and hunt up Figgis and young Willi