rranted in taking an optimistic view of these vague
words. "It's awfully good of you"--he began, lamely, and then paused.
"I wonder,"--he took up a new thought with a more solicitous tone,--"I
wonder if you would mind returning to me that idiotic paper I signed."

Thorpe shook his head. "Not just now, at any rate," he said, still
musingly. With his head bowed, he took a few restless steps.

"But you are going to--to help me!" the other remarked, with an air of
confidence. He had taken up his hat, in response to the tacit warning of
his companion's manner.

Thorpe looked at him curiously, and hesitated over his answer. It was a
surprising and almost unaccountable conclusion for the interview to
have reached. He was in some vague way ashamed of himself, but he was
explicitly and contemptuously ashamed for Plowden, and the impulse to
say so was strong within him. This handsome young gentleman of title
ought not to be escaping with this restored buoyancy of mien, and this
complacency of spirit. He had deserved to be punished with a heavy hand,
and here he was blithely making certain of new benefits instead.

"I don't know--I'll see," Thorpe moodily repeated--and there was no more
to be said.

CHAPTER XXI

IN the noon hour of the following day was enacted the brief final scene
in the drama of the "Rubber Consols corner."

For long weeks, Mr. Stormont Thorpe had given much thought to this
approaching climax of his great adventure--looking forward to it both
as the crowning event of his life, and as the dawn of a new existence in
some novel, enchanted world. It was to bring his triumph, and even more,
his release. It was at once to crown him as a hero and chieftain among
City men, and transfigure him into a being for whom all City things were
an abomination. In his waking hours, the conflict between these aims did
not specially force itself upon his attention: he mused upon, and spun
fancies about, either one indifferently, and they seemed not at all
irreconcilable. But his dreams were full of warfare,--wearily saturated
with strife, and endless endeavour to do things which could not be
done, and panic-stricken terrors before the shadow of shapeless
calamities,--until he dreaded to go to sleep. Then he discovered that
an extra two glasses of whiskey-and-water would solve that particular
difficulty, and send him into prompt, leaden slumber--but the early
mornings remained as torturing as ever. In the twilight he