A few of the struggling depositors dropped out of line, some of the others saying that, as they had waited so long, they guessed they would get their money now.

The advice given, perhaps, had an added effect, as at that moment a shriek arose from a woman near the door, who declared that her pocket had been picked of the money she had just drawn.

The arrival of the new depositors, and the spreading through the crowd of the information that they represented several of the strongest banks in the city, quieted the apprehensions of the depositors, and a considerable number of them abandoned the idea of drawing out their money and went off.  Though many of them remained, it was evident that the dangerous run had subsided.  A notice was posted on the front door of the bank that the bank would remain open until eight o’clock and would be open the following morning at eight, which had something to do with allaying the excitement of the depositors.

That afternoon Keith went back to the bank.  Though depositors were still drawing out their money, the scene outside was very different from that which he had witnessed earlier in the day.  Keith asked for Mr. Wentworth, and was shown to his room.  When Keith entered, Norman was sitting at his desk figuring busily.  Keith closed the door behind him and waited.  The lines were deep on Norman’s face; but the hunted look it had borne in the morning had passed away, and grim resolution had taken its place.  When at length he glanced up, his already white face grew yet whiter.  The next second a flush sprang to his cheeks; he pushed back his chair and rose, and, taking one step forward, stretched out his hand.

“Keith!”

Keith took his hand with a grip that drove the blood from the ends of Norman’s fingers.

“Norman!”

Norman drew a chair close to his desk, and Keith sat down.  Norman sank into his, looked down on the floor for a second, then, raising his eyes, looked full into Keith’s eyes.

“Keith—?” His voice failed him; he glanced away, reached over, and took up a paper lying near, and the next instant leant forward, and folding his arms on the desk, dropped his head on them, shaken with emotion.

Keith rose from his chair, and bending over him, laid his hand on his head, as he might have done to a younger brother.

“Don’t, Norman,” he said helplessly; “it is all right.”  He moved his hand down Norman’s arm with a touch as caressing as if he had been a little child, but all he said was:  “Don’t, Norman; it is all right.”

Suddenly Norman sat up.

“It is all wrong!” he said bitterly.  “I have been a fool.  I had no right—.  But I was mad!  I have wrecked my life.  But I was insane.  I was deceived.  I do not know even now how it happened.  I ought to have known, but—­I learned only just now.  I can never explain.  I ask your pardon humbly.”

Keith leant forward and laid his hand upon him affectionately.