Jefferson Edwardes had hurried out with a feeling of renewed strength.  It was to him as though a promise of hope had been vouchsafed in a moment of despair.  At Malone’s office, he met Harrison, Meegan and several others.  The old lion of the Street himself was slamming down the telephone as the newcomer entered.

“I’ve been talking with Washington,” he announced, and his voice was one of steel coolness.  At such an hour as this Malone wasted no minim of strength in futile anger.  That belonged to other moments.  “We have done what we could.  It is not enough.  We must do more.  We have pegged those stocks where the slump would be most demoralizing and already this highbinder, Burton, has smashed those pegs like match-stems.  We have sent money to a dozen banks that seemed hardest pressed, and scores are sending out calls for help.  Good God, gentlemen, it’s like sweeping back the sea with brooms.”

“Why did you send for me?” demanded Edwardes, though he knew.

“To ask your aid,” came the crisp reply.  “This is a general alarm.  The next few hours will roar to the continuous crash of falling banks—­many of them banks that have a close relationship to you, Edwardes.  Once more we must go to the rescue and it will take fifty additional millions.  Otherwise—­panic unparalleled.  We expect you to stand your pro rata.”

“Gentlemen,” said the latest comer bluntly, “this raid is primarily aimed at me—­its principal object is my destruction.  Already I am hit for millions.  I, too, was about to call for help from you.  When this succession of crashes comes, Edwardes and Edwardes may be among the ruins.”

The bushy brows of Malone came together in astonishment.  “Great heavens, man!  Edwardes and Edwardes is a synonym for Gibraltar.”

“And under heavy enough artillery—­” Edwardes spoke with bitter calmness—­“Gibraltar would be a synonym for scattered junk.  What news from Washington?”

“Washington has called Burton on the telephone.  The Secretary of the Treasury has failed to connect with him.  He does not acknowledge telegrams.  He is ignoring the government and treating the President with contempt.  He wants to have today for his massacre—­and to talk about it tomorrow.  We have sent repeatedly to his office.  He can’t be reached.”

“That effort may as well be dropped.”  Edwardes shrugged his shoulders wearily.  “He will have his day—­and leave tomorrow to itself.”

“And by the Immortal!” For an instant a baleful fire leaped into Malone’s face.  “We will have tomorrow!  Every sinew of American finance shall be strained against him.  But tomorrow may be too late.  Can you hold out?”

Edwardes smiled grimly.  “I’m trying like all hell,” he said.  “I’ve not laid down yet.”

* * * * *

It was two o’clock and the Stock-Exchange was a shambles.  Every security in the Street was down to panic figures and plunging plummet-like to further depths.  At shortening intervals over the hoarse shrieks of the floor’s tumult boomed the brazen hammer blows of the huge gong, which should sound only twice each day.  At every recurring announcement of failure a wall-shaking howl went up and echoed among the sixty-two inverted golden blossoms of the ceiling.