* * * * *

Two days later Francisco met Ralston coming out of the bank.  His face was haggard.  His eyes had the look of one who has been struck an unexpected blow.

“Will the directors’ meeting take place today, Mr. Ralston?”

“It’s in session now,” he answered dully.

“Ah, I thought, perhaps—­since you are leaving—­it had been postponed.”

Spots of red flamed in the banker’s cheeks.  “They’ve barred me from the meeting,” he replied and hurried on.

Several hours later newsboys ran through San Francisco’s streets: 
“EXTRA!  EXTRA!” they screamed, “ALL ABOUT RALSTON’S SUICIDE.”

CHAPTER LXV

INDUSTRIAL UNREST

About the Bank of California was a surging press of men and women.  The doors of that great financial institution were closed, blinds drawn, as on the previous day.  Now and then an officer or director passed the guarded portals.  D.O.  Mills was one of these, his stern, ascetic face more severe than usual.

Francisco Stanley pushed his way up to the carriage as it started.

“Will the bank reopen, Mr. Mills?” he asked, walking along beside the moving vehicle.

The financier’s eyes glared from the inner shadows.  “Yes, yes.  Certainly,” he snapped.  “Very shortly ... as soon as we can levy an assessment” The coachman whipped up his horses; the carriage rolled off.  Francisco turned to face his uncle.  “What did he say?” asked Benito.  Others crowded close to hear the young editor’s answer.  The word found it way through the crowd.  “The bank will reopen....  They’ll levy an assessment....  We won’t lose a cent.”

Gradually the throng disbanded.  Everywhere one heard expressions of sorrow for Ralston; doubt of the story that he had destroyed his life.  As a matter of fact a coroner’s jury found that death resulted from cerebral attack.  An insurance company waived its suicide exemption clause and paid his widow $50,000.

The Bank of California was reopened.  Ralston, buried with the pomp and splendor of a sorrowing multitude, was presently forgotten.  Few new troubles came upon the land.  Overspeculation in the Comstock lode brought economic unrest.

Thousands were unemployed in San Francisco.  Agitators rallied them at public meetings into furious and morbid groups.  From the Eastern States came telegraphic news of strikes and violence.  Adrian returned one evening, tired and harassed.

“I don’t know what’s got into the working people,” he said to Inez.

“Oh, they’ll get over that,” pronounced Francisco, with the sweeping confidence of youth.  “These intervals of discontent are periodical—­like epidemics of diseases.”

Adrian glanced at the treatise on Political Economy in his son’s hand.  “And what would you suggest, my boy?” he asked with a faint smile.