hquake ever disturbed him.

"But where is all the money we made yesterday?" came from Hill, in
strident voice. "I want it, and I want it now!"

And he did want it more than he wanted good name, fame, wife, home,
life, health, or God even!

"We made no money out of Rockhaven," answered Simmons, too disgusted
even to be polite; "and I told you once, I have squared my account with
Weston and paid him all I owe him. If that is not enough, I'll sing it
to you."

And Hill, too agonized to feel an insult even, turned away. Back to the
office he ran and read the long account of how Rockhaven had gone up
like a rocket and down like a stick. He also read how Simmons had, at
the critical moment, been worsted by Page, and even a description of
Jess Hutton, who was present to see the fiasco. For Page, not satisfied
with his triumph, had called up a reporter, and it is small wonder that
Simmons was thoroughly incensed. There was sarcastic reference to him in
the article: Weston was ridiculed, and even Hill did not escape, for
this sacrilegious scribe had suggested that he could cool his rage at
being baffled by fanning himself with his own ears. It was a malicious
thrust, for the one feature about himself that Hill was ashamed of was
his enormous ears.

In the midst of this added agony, in walked a clerk from their bank to
inform him the account of Weston & Hill was overdrawn ten thousand
dollars, and to make it good inside an hour or legal proceedings would
follow.

Then Hill, with a groan, staggered to their safe and opened the till
where securities were kept.

It was empty!

Then ruined, robbed, insulted, and in utter despair, he who in all his
long life of grasping greed never had had one kindly thought for others,
or of their needs, locked himself in his private office.

And when, an hour later, an officer knocked upon the door, demanding
admittance in the name of the law, a pistol's report was the only
answer.

And Carlos B. Hill, a cowardly sneak in life, died a coward's death.

But the minister of his church uttered an eulogy over him, for so much
had he bought and amply paid for, and a small cortege followed him to
his last resting place.

And among those few there was not a single sincere mourner.

Not even his wife!

CHAPTER XXXII

THE AFTERMATH OF A SWINDLE

Out of all the many confiding investors who were robbed by Weston &
Hill, only a few need be mentioned. Winn's aunt, Mrs. Converse, was