“Then make it eight o’clock, so as to be sure.  I have thought of something else.  Ten thousand dollars,” he kept muttering to himself—­“ten thousand dollars”—­as he put on his hat and moved to the door.  There he stopped and faced about—­his bushy brows tightening as a new difficulty confronted him.  “Well, but for how long?” That part of the transaction Jack had forgotten to mention.

“I can’t tell; maybe a year—­maybe more.”

Peter advanced a step as if to return to the room and give up the whole business.

“But Jack, my boy, don’t you see how impossible a loan of that kind is?”

Jack stood irresolute.  In his mad desire to save Garry he had not considered that phase of the matter.

“Yes—­but I’ve got to have it,” he cried in a positive tone.  “You would feel just as I do, if you knew the circumstances.”

Peter turned without a word and opened the door leading into the hall.  “Be back here at eight,” was all he said as he shut the door behind him and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs.

Shortly before the appointed hour Jack again mounted the three flights of steps to Peter’s rooms.  He had had a queer experience—­ queer for him.  The senior member of one supply firm had looked at him sharply, and had then said with a contemptuous smile, “Well, we are looking for ten thousand dollars ourselves, and will pay a commission to get it.”  Another had replied that they were short, or would be glad to oblige him, and as soon as Jack left the office had called to their bookkeeper to “send MacFarlane his account, and say we have some heavy payments to meet, and will he oblige us with a check”—­adding to his partner—­“Something rotten in Denmark, or that young fellow wouldn’t be looking around for a wad as big as that.”  A third merchant heard him out, and with some feeling in his voice said:  “I’m sorry for you, Breen”—­Jack’s need of money was excuse enough for the familiarity—­“for Mr. MacFarlane thinks everything of you, he’s told me so a dozen times—­and there isn’t any finer man living than Henry MacFarlane.  But, just as your friend, let me tell you to stay out of the Street; it’s no place for a young man like you.  No—­I don’t mean any offence.  If I didn’t believe in you myself, I wouldn’t say it.  Take my advice and stay out.”

And so footsore and heart-sore, his face haggard from hunger, for he had eaten nothing since breakfast, his purpose misunderstood, his own character assailed, his pride humiliated, and with courage almost gone, he strode into Peter’s room and threw himself into a chair.

Peter heard his step and entered from his bedroom, where he had finished dressing for dinner.  The old fellow seemed greatly troubled.  One glance at Jack’s face told the story of the afternoon.

“You have done nothing, Jack?” he asked in a despondent tone.

“No—­have you?”

“Nothing.  Portman has gone to his place on Long Island, the others were out.  Whom did you see?”