Bullion, at last, in spite of his armor of selfishness and stoicism, was touched in a vital part.  His dreams of wealth had vanished into air.  The confederate in New York in whom he had trusted had only made him a dupe.  Blindly following out his agreement, he found himself saddled with a load of railroad-shares, useless for any present purpose, and all his convertible property gone.  The consciousness that he—­the man of all others who prided himself upon his sagacity—­had been so easily overreached was quite as humiliating as the idea of ruin itself.  He remembered Kerbstone’s appeals, also, and now cursed his own stupidity in refusing to aid him.  There he had overreached himself; it was his own stocks which he had thrown down to the “bears.”  And now, heaviest stroke of all, Fletcher, his intrepid and chivalrous agent, who had stepped into the breach for him, had paid for his indiscretion with his life.  The thought gave him a pang he had never felt, not even when he followed his wife to the grave.  Homeward he went, but slowly and almost without volition.  He recognized no acquaintances that he met, but walked on abstractedly, fixing his eyes on vacancy with a look as mournful as his iron features could wear.  In his ears still rang those thrilling cries.  His hand, that had groped over that motionless heart, still felt a creeping chill; it would not warm.  And constantly an accusing voice asked, “Why didn’t you come down?”—­and conscience repeated the question in tones like those of a judge arraigning a criminal.  He reached his house and gave orders that no one should be admitted.  In his room he passed the day alone, drifting on an ocean of remorse, full of vague purposes of repentance and restitution.  Dinner passed unheeded, and still he paced the silent chamber.  With the approach of evening his terrors increased; he rang for a servant and had the gas-burners lighted.  Still, in all the blaze, shapes would haunt him; they crouched at the foot of his bed; they lurked behind his wardrobe-door.  He dared not look over his shoulder, but forced himself to stand up and face what he so dreaded to see.  He rang again and bade the servant bring a screw-driver and take down the coat-hooks from the wardrobe; the garments hanging there seemed to be men struggling in the agonies of asphyxia.  The slender thread of sound from the gas-burners seemed to be changed to low, mournful cries, as of a woman over the dead.  He turned the gas down a little; then the shadows of the cannel-coal fire danced like spectres on the ceiling.  He jumped up and raised the lights again; again the low, dismal monotone sang in his ears.  He stopped them with his fingers; again the persistent voice asked, “Why didn’t you come down?” Flakes fell off the coal in the grate in shapes like coffins; the flames seemed to dart at him with their fiery tongues.  He rang once more, and when the servant came he bade him drink enough strong tea and then take his chair by the fire.