ner knew that an
hour's work might resuscitate the fallen fortunes of himself and his
partner, and yet he could not afford to make a mistake. He returned to
his office in the afternoon, half inclined to back the chances of peace,
for of all war scares not one in ten comes to pass. As he entered the
office a telegram lay upon the table. It was from Dunsloe, a place of
which he had never heard, and was signed by his absent partner.
The message was in cipher, but he soon translated it, for it was short
and crisp.

"I am a bear of everything German and French. Sell, sell, sell, keep on
selling."

For a moment Warner hesitated. What could Worlington Dodds know at
Dunsloe which was not known in Throgmorton Street? But he remembered
the quickness and decision of his partner. He would not have sent such
a message without very good grounds. If he was to act at all he must
act at once, so, hardening his heart, he went down to the house, and,
dealing upon that curious system by which a man can sell what he has not
got, and what he could not pay for if he had it, he disposed of heavy
parcels of French and German securities. He had caught the market in
one of its little spasms of hope, and there was no lack of buying until
his own persistent selling caused others to follow his lead, and so
brought about a reaction. When Warner returned to his offices it took
him some hours to work out his accounts, and he emerged into the streets
in the evening with the absolute certainty that the next settling-day
would leave him either hopelessly bankrupt or exceedingly prosperous.

It all depended upon Worlington Dodds's information. What could he
possibly have found out at Dunsloe?

And then suddenly he saw a newspaper boy fasten a poster upon a
lamp-post, and a little crowd had gathered round it in an instant
One of them waved his hat in the air; another shouted to a friend across
the street. Warner hurried up and caught a glimpse of the poster
between two craning heads--

"FRANCE DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY."

"By Jove!" cried Warner. "Old Dodds was right, after all."

THE KING OF THE FOXES

It was after a hunting dinner, and there were as many scarlet coats as
black ones round the table. The conversation over the cigars had
turned, therefore, in the direction of horses and horsemen, with
reminiscences of phenomenal runs where foxes had led the pack from end
to end of a county, and been overtaken at last by