had not moved
or shown the slightest interest in the affair. Nobody could sell Biff
any gold stock--nor any other kind of stock. His came on the first of
every month in a check from the Trust Company.

For some moments Jack did not speak. He knew young Gilbert, and he knew
his young and very charming wife. He had once sat next to her at dinner,
when her whole conversation had been about this new home and the keen
interest that Morris, a friend of her father's, had taken in it. "Mr.
Breen, you and Miss Corinne must be among our earliest guests," she had
said, at which Corinne, who was next to Garry, had ducked her little
head in acceptance. This was the young fellow, then, who had been caught
in one of the eddies whirling over the sunken rocks of the Street. Not
very creditable to his intelligence, perhaps, thought Jack; but, then,
again, who had placed them there, a menace to navigation?--and why?
Certainly Peter could not have known everything that was going on around
him, if he thought the effort of so insignificant an individual as
himself could be of use in clearing out obstructions like these.

Garry noticed the thoughtful expression settling over Jack's face, and
mistaking the cause called Charles to take the additional orders.

"Cheer up--try a high-ball, Jack. It's none of your funeral. You didn't
scoop Gilbert; we are the worst sufferers. Can't finish his house now,
and Mr. Morris is just wild over the design. It's on a ledge of rock
overlooking the lake, and the whole thing goes together. We've got the
roof on, and from across the lake it looks as if it had grown there. Mr.
Morris repeated the rock forms everywhere. Stunning, I tell you!"

Jack didn't want any high-ball, and said so. (Biffy didn't care if he
did.) The boy's mind was still on the scoop, particularly on the way in
which every one of his fellow-members had spoken of the incident.

"Horrid business, all of it. Don't you think so, Garry?" Jack said after
a pause.

"No, not if you keep your eyes peeled," answered Garry, emptying his
glass. "Never saw Gilbert but once, and then he looked to me like a
softy from Pillowville. Couldn't fool me, I tell you, on a deal like
that. I'd have had a 'stop order' somewhere. Served Gilbert right; no
business to be monkeying with a buzz-saw unless he knew how to throw off
the belt."

Jack straightened his shoulders and his brows knit. The lines of the
portrait were in the lad's face now.

"Well, maybe it