weep his dumfounded audience. There
was not a murmur. The crowd was speechless.

Again his eyes swept the room. Then he slowly raised his right hand with
fist clenched, as though about to deal a blow.

"Men of Wall Street"--his voice was now deep and solemn--"to show that
Robert Brownley knew what was fitting for the last day of his career, he
has revealed to you the trick--and more.

"Many of you are desperate. Many of you by to-morrow will be ruined. The
time of all times for such to put my trick in practice is now. The victim
of victims is ready for the experiment. I am he. I have a billion dollars.
With this billion dollars I am able to buy ten million shares of the
leading stocks and to pay for them, even though after I have bought they
fall a hundred dollars a share. Here is your chance to prevent your ruin,
your chance to retrieve your fortune, your chance to secure revenge upon
me, the one who has robbed you."

He paused only long enough for his astounding advice to connect with his
listener's now keenly sensitive nerve centres; then deep and clear rang
out, "Barry Conant." The wiry form of Bob's old antagonist leaped to the
rostrum.

"I authorise you to buy any part of ten million shares of the leading
stocks at any price up to fifty points above the present market. There is
my check-book signed in blank, and I authorise you to use it up to a
billion dollars, and I agree to have in bank to-morrow sufficient funds to
meet any checks you draw. You have failed to-day for seven millions, and,
therefore, cannot trade, but I herewith announce that I will pay all the
indebtedness of Barry Conant and his house. Therefore he is now in good
standing." Bob had kept his eye on the great clock; as the last word
passed his lips, the President's gavel descended.

With a mighty rush the gamblers leaped for the different poles. Barry
Conant with lightning rapidity gave his orders to twenty of his
assistants, who, when Bob Brownley called for Conant, had gathered around
their chief. In less than a minute the dollar-battle of the age was on, a
battle such as no man had ever seen before. It required no supernatural
wisdom for any man on the floor to see that Bob Brownley's seed had fallen
in superheated soil, that his until now secret hellite was about to be
tested. It needed no expert in the mystic art of deciphering the wall
hieroglyphics of Old Hag Fate to see that the hands on the clock of the
"System" were approaching t