“Turned threescore, sir; old enough to die.”

“Die—­die! death is a sweet thing, old man, when it comes to the care-worn.  I have had my share of trouble.”

“Too much, sir—­too much!” said Burrage, his eyes filling with water.  “You have half killed yourself here.  I am sure your poor father never expected this.  Nobody could have expected it in his time, when you were a little, fat, rosy-cheeked boy, running about without a thought, except a thought of kindness for other people.”

Michael Allcraft burst into a flood of tears—­they gushed faster and faster into his eyes, and he sobbed as only men sob who have reached the climax of earthly suffering and trial.

“Do not take on so, my dear sir,” said Burrage, running to him.  “Pray, be calm.  I am sure you are unwell.  You have been ill for some time.  You should see a doctor—­although I am very much afraid that your disease is beyond their cure—­in truth I am.”

“Burrage,” said Michael in a whisper, and still sighing convulsively—­“It is all over.  It is finished.  Prepare for the crash—­look to your own safety.  Hide yourself from the gaze of men.  It will strike us all dead.”

“You frighten me, Mr Allcraft.—­You are really very ill.  Your brain is overworked—­you want a little repose and recreation.”

“Yes, you are right Burrage—­the recreation of a jail—­the repose of a tomb.  We will have one, at least—­yes, one—­and I have made the selection.”

“Have you heard any bad news to-day, sir?”

“None—­excellent news to-day.  No more hopes and fears—­no alarms—­no lying and knavery—­eternal peace now, and not eternal wretchedness.”

“Had you not better leave the bank, Mr Allcraft, and go home?  Your hands are burning hot.  You are in a high fever.”

“Put up the shutters—­put up the shutters,” muttered Michael, more to himself than to his clerk.  “Write bankrupt on the door—­write it in large letters—­in staring capitals—­that the children may read the word, and know why they are taught to curse me.  You hear me, Burrage?”

“I hear what you say, sir, but I do not understand you.  You want rest—­you are excited.”

“I tell you, Burrage, I am quiet—­I never was so quiet—­never sounder in body and mind.  Will you refuse to listen to the truth?  Man,” he continued, raising his voice and looking the clerk steadily in the face.  “I am ruined—­a beggar.  The bank is at its last gasp.  The doors are closed to-night—­never to be re-opened.”

“God forbid, sir!”

“Why so?—­Would you drive me mad?  Am I to have no peace—­no rest?  Am I to be devoured, eaten away by anxiety and trouble?  Have you no human blood—­no pity for me?  Are you as selfish as the rest?”

“Is it possible, sir?”

“It is the truth.  But speak not of it.  I will have your life if you betray me until the event tells its own tale.  We close the door to-night, to open it no more.  You hear the words.  They are very simple words.  Why do you stare so, as if you couldn’t guess their meaning?”