“Yes,” Vine answered, “I agree with you!”

He rose to his feet.  John Drayton followed his example.

“My business is really concluded,” he remarked.  “I had to see your manager on behalf of a client of mine.  Are you coming my way, Vine?  I am going to the club.”

“I will follow you in a few minutes,” Vine answered.

John Drayton went out, and once more the three men were alone.

“You see, Mr. Vine,” Weiss said slowly, “this isn’t the country or the age for Don Quixotes.  Fight against our Trusts and our monetary system with all your eloquence, if you will, but don’t tamper with things you don’t understand, or you may do harm where you meant to do good.  Now what can we say to you about that document?”

“I am not prepared,” Vine said, rising, “to come to any definite decision at this moment.  Frankly, I want to use it so as to do you the greatest possible amount of harm.  On the other hand, I never contemplated any such developments as you and John Drayton have suggested.  I am going to think this matter over.”

“We are open enemies,” Weiss said, “and there is no reason why we should not respect one another as such.  We ask you to abide by the ways of civilized warfare.  Don’t strike without a word, at any rate, of warning.  It will be in the interests of others, as well as ourselves.”

“Very well,” Vine said.  “I promise that.”

He left the office without any further word, without shaking hands with either of the two men.  Weiss sat down in his seat, and Littleson, who was trembling all over, came to his side.

“Stephen,” he said, “you’re a great man.  Come right along out of this and go to Parker’s and have a bottle.  My nerves are all on the twitch.”

Weiss rose and put on his hat.  The two men left the office together, and climbed into Littleson’s automobile.

* * * * *

Vine walked thoughtfully down to his club.  Amongst the letters which the hall-porter handed to him was one from Stella.  He tore it open and read it standing there.

“My dear Norris,” it began,—­

“Events have been marching a little too rapidly for me lately, and I am going away.  I cannot stand New York any longer.  Fifth Avenue gives me the horrors, and I am afraid to open an American paper.  Besides, there are other things, to which I need not allude, which make me think that it would perhaps be better for me to take a journey.  You will see from where I am writing I am on board the Kaiser Wilhelm.  Where I shall go to in Europe, or what I shall do, I am not sure.  I am not sure either that it would interest you to know.  You are very absorbed in your profession, and I do not think that the things outside it mean much to you.  I suppose that is the usual fate of us women.  We are always willing to give, and we make no bargains.  Don’t think that I am reproaching you, only I have made America an impossible place for me just now.  I could not bear to see that poor little cousin of mine, with her big reproachful eyes.  Nor if you fill your purpose, and the storm comes, do I care to feel that I am responsible for the trouble which must surely follow.