nothing of the strike in the lobby of the Stock Exchange, where he spent two or three hours watching a favorite stock of his go up and go down under the betting.  By the time the Exchange closed it had risen eight points, and on this and some other investments he was five thousand dollars richer than he had been in the morning.  But he had expected to be richer still, and he was by no means satisfied with his luck.  All through the excitement of his winning and losing had played the dull, murderous rage he felt toward they child who had defied him, and when the game was over and he started home his rage mounted into a sort of frenzy; he would teach her, he would break her.  He walked a long way without thinking, and then waited for a car.  None came, and he hailed a passing coupe.

“What has got all the cars?” he demanded of the driver, who jumped down from his box to open the door for him and get his direction.

“Been away?” asked the driver.  “Hasn’t been any car along for a week.  Strike.”

“Oh yes,” said Dryfoos.  He felt suddenly giddy, and he remained staring at the driver after he had taken his seat.

The man asked, “Where to?”

Dryfoos could not think of his street or number, and he said, with uncontrollable fury:  “I told you once!  Go up to West Eleventh, and drive along slow on the south side; I’ll show you the place.”

He could not remember the number of ‘Every Other Week’ office, where he suddenly decided to stop before he went home.  He wished to see Fulkerson, and ask him something about Beaton:  whether he had been about lately, and whether he had dropped any hint of what had happened concerning Christine; Dryfoos believed that Fulkerson was in the fellow’s confidence.

There was nobody but Conrad in the counting-room, whither Dryfoos returned after glancing into Fulkerson’s empty office.  “Where’s Fulkerson?” he asked, sitting down with his hat on.

“He went out a few moments ago,” said Conrad, glancing at the clock.  “I’m afraid he isn’t coming back again today, if you wanted to see him.”

Dryfoos twisted his head sidewise and upward to indicate March’s room.  “That other fellow out, too?”

“He went just before Mr. Fulkerson,” answered Conrad.

“Do you generally knock off here in the middle of the afternoon?” asked the old man.

“No,” said Conrad, as patiently as if his father had not been there a score of times and found the whole staff of “Every Other Week” at work between four and five.  “Mr. March, you know, always takes a good deal of his work home with him, and I suppose Mr. Fulkerson went out so early because there isn’t much doing to-day.  Perhaps it’s the strike that makes it dull.”