Then her eyes began absently studying the inscriptions on the windows of
the next building, beyond an intervening court, and she smothered an
impulse to scream as a sign across several broad panes flared at her in
goldleaf.

"Hamilton Montagu Burton." A bitter fascination held her gaze there. She
saw offices teeming with the fevered activity of a beehive--and another
window showed a room where the electric lamps shone on emptiness. After
she had watched it for a time a solitary figure came into view and stood
by the ledge looking out. It was her brother, and though, through the
gray fog, he was silhouetted there against the light at his back,
something in the posture revealed his mood of Napoleonic implacability.
It was as though he were, from an eminence, actually viewing the battle
whose secret springs his fingers controlled, and as though he were well
pleased.

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