“That be d——­d!” said his visitor bitterly.  “All his interests are the other way, and in a trade of this kind, you know, Stacy, that a man would sacrifice his own brother.  Do you suppose that he’d let up on a sure thing that he’s got just because he and I fought side by side at Cerro Gordo?  Come! what are you giving us?  You’re the last man I ever expected to hear that kind of flapdoodle from.  If it’s because your bank has got some other interest and you can’t advise me, why don’t you say so?” Nevertheless, in spite of Stacy’s abrupt disclaimer, he left a few minutes later, half convinced that Stacy’s lukewarmness was due to some adverse influence.  Other callers were almost as quickly disposed of, and at the end of an hour Stacy found himself again alone.

But not apparently in a very satisfied mood.  After a few moments of purely mechanical memoranda-making, he rose abruptly and opened a small drawer in a cabinet, from which he took a letter still in its envelope.  It bore a foreign postmark.  Glancing over it hastily, his eyes at last became fixed on a concluding paragraph.  “I hope,” wrote his correspondent, “that even in the rush of your big business you will sometimes look after Barker.  Not that I think the dear old chap will ever go wrong—­indeed, I often wish I was as certain of myself as of him and his insight; but I am afraid we were more inclined to be merely amused and tolerant of his wonderful trust and simplicity than to really understand it for his own good and ours.  I know you did not like his marriage, and were inclined to believe he was the victim of a rather unscrupulous father and a foolish, unequal girl; but are you satisfied that he would have been the happier without it, or lived his perfect life under other and what you may think wiser conditions?  If he wrote the poetry that he lives everybody would think him wonderful; for being what he is we never give him sufficient credit.”  Stacy smiled grimly, and penciled on his memorandum, “He wants it to the amount of ten thousand dollars.”  “Anyhow,” continued the writer, “look after him, Jim, for his sake, your sake, and the sake of—­Phil Demorest.”

Stacy put the letter back in its envelope, and tossing it grimly aside went on with his calculations.  Presently he stopped, restored the letter to his cabinet, and rang a bell on his table.  “Send Mr. North here,” he said to the negro messenger.  In a few moments his chief book-keeper appeared in the doorway.

“Turn to the Branch ledger and bring me a statement of Mr. George Barker’s account.”

“He was here a moment ago,” said North, essaying a confidential look towards his chief.

“I know it,” said Stacy coolly, without looking up.

“He’s been running a good deal on wildcat lately,” suggested North.

“I asked for his account, and not your opinion of it,” said Stacy shortly.

The subordinate withdrew somewhat abashed but still curious, and returned presently with a ledger which he laid before his chief.  Stacy ran his eyes over the list of Barker’s securities; it seemed to him that all the wildest schemes of the past year stared him in the face.  His finger, however, stopped on the Wide West Extension.  “Mr. Barker will be wanting to sell some of this stock.  What is it quoted at now?”