Once a faded, white-haired old man had handed Jack a check after banking hours to make good an account—­a man whose face had haunted him for hours.  His uncle told him the poor fellow had “run up solid” against a short interest in a stock that some Croesus was manipulating to get even with another Croesus who had manipulated him, and that the two Croesuses had “buried the old man alive.”  The name of the stock Jack had forgotten, but the suffering in the victim’s face had made an indelible impression.  In reply to Jack’s further inquiry, his uncle had spoken as if the poor fellow had been wandering about on some unknown highway when the accident happened, failing to add that he himself had led him through the gate and started him on the road; forgetting, too, to say that he had collected the toll in margins, a sum which still formed a considerable portion of Breen & Co.’s bank account.  One bit of information which Breen had vouchsafed, while it did not relieve the gloom of the incident, added a note of courage to the affair: 

“He was game, however, all the same, Jack.  Had to go down into his wife’s stocking, I hear.  Hard hit, but he took it like a man.”

CHAPTER V.

While all this was going on downtown under the direction of the business end of the house of Breen, equally interesting events were taking place uptown under the guidance of its social head.  Strict orders had been given by Mrs. Breen the night before that certain dustings and arrangings of furniture should take place, the spacious stairs swept, and the hectic hired palms in their great china pots watered.  I say “the night before,” because especial stress was laid upon the fact that on no account whatever were either Mrs. Breen or her daughter Corinne to be disturbed until noon—­neither of them having retired until a late hour the night before.

So strictly were these orders carried out that all that did reach the younger woman’s ear—­and this was not until long after mid-day—­was a scrap of news which crept upstairs from the breakfast table via Parkins wireless, was caught by Corinne’s maid and delivered in manifold with that young lady’s coffee and buttered rolls.  This when deciphered meant that Jack was not to be at the dance that evening—­he having determined instead to spend his time up stairs with a disreputable old fellow whom he had picked up somewhere at a supper the preceding night.

Corinne thought over the announcement for a moment, gazed into the egg-shell cup that Hortense was filling from the tiny silver coffee-pot, and a troubled expression crossed her face.  “What has come over Jack?” she asked herself.  “I never knew him to do anything like this before.  Is he angry, I wonder, because I danced with Garry the other night?  It was his dance, but I didn’t think he would care.  He has always done everything to please me—­until now.”  Perhaps the boy