In the morning Po Lun brought a cup of broth and fed him with a spoon.

“Long time you been plenty sick,” the Chinaman replied to his interrogation.

“Where’s Alice?”

“She go ’sleep ’bout daylight....  She plenty ti’ed.  Ebely night she sit up while you talk clazy talk.”

“You mean I’ve been delirious, Po Lun?”

The Chinese nodded.  “You get well now plitty soon,” he said soothingly and, with the empty cup, stole softly out.  After a time Alice came, rejoiced to find him awake.  The boy, on his way to school, poked a bright morning face in at the door and called out, “Hello, dad!  Better, ain’t you?”

“Yes, Robert,” said Benito.  When the boy had gone he turned to Alice.  “How long have I been ill?”

“Less than a fortnight—­though it seems an age.”  She took his hand and cried a little.  But they were happy tears.  He stroked her hair with a hand that seemed strangely heavy.

* * * * *

Three weeks later, hollow-eyed, a little shaky, but eager to be back at work, Benito returned to his office.  A press of work engaged him through the morning hours.  But at noon, he wandered out into the bright June sunshine, walking about and greeting old friends.  At the Russ House Cafe, where he lunched, William Ralston greeted him cordially.

“How is the war going?” Windham asked.  “I’ve been laid up for a month—­rather out of the running.”

“Well, they’re devilish hard fighters, those Confederates.  And Lee’s a master strategist....  But we’ve the money, Windham.  That’s what counts.  The Union owes a lot to California and Nevada.”

“Nevada!” with the word came sudden recollection.  “That reminds me, Ralston....  How are stocks?”

But the banker, with a muttered excuse hastened off.

Benito finished his coffee, smoked a cigarette and made his way again into the street.

Presently he went into the stock exchange, almost deserted now, after the close of the morning session.  O’Brien was there, smoking a long black cigar and chatting in his boisterous, confidential way with Asbury Harpending.  The latter was babbling in real estate.

“Hullo, Windham!” he greeted.  “You don’t look very fit....  Been ill?”

“Yes,” Benito told him.  “Laid up since the last of May.  What’s new?”

“Nothing much—­since the bottom dropped out of Comstock.”

Instinctively Benito’s hand went out toward a chair.  He sank into it weakly.  So that was the explanation of Ralston’s swift departure.

He felt the men’s eyes upon him as he walked unsteadily to the files and scanned them.  Ophir stock had dropped 50 per cent.  Gould and Curry was even lower.  Benito closed the book and walked blindly out of the exchange.

After a time he heard footsteps following.  Harpending’s voice came, “Hey, there, Windham.”  Benito turned.

“Cleaned out?” asked the other sympathetically.