"That effort may as well be dropped." Edwardes shrugged his shoulders
wearily. "He will have his day--and leave tomorrow to itself."

"And by the Immortal!" For an instant a baleful fire leaped into
Malone's face. "We will have tomorrow! Every sinew of American finance
shall be strained against him. But tomorrow may be too late. Can you
hold out?"

Edwardes smiled grimly. "I'm trying like all hell," he said. "I've not
laid down yet."

* * * * *

It was two o'clock and the Stock-Exchange was a shambles. Every security
in the Street was down to panic figures and plunging plummet-like to
further depths. At shortening intervals over the hoarse shrieks of the
floor's tumult boomed the brazen hammer blows of the huge gong, which
should sound only twice each day. At every recurring announcement of
failure a wall-shaking howl went up and echoed among the sixty-two
inverted golden blossoms of the ceiling.

The faces of the men to whom these cracked and hoarsened voices belonged
had become bestial and wolfish. Where the morning had seen well-groomed
representatives of Money's upper caste, the afternoon saw a seething
mass of human ragamuffins, torn of clothing, sweat-drenched and lost to
all senses save those twin emotions of ferocity and fear. Back and forth
they swirled and eddied, and howled like wild things about carrion. At
one side, panting, disheveled and bleeding from scratches incurred in
the mêlée, bulked the gigantic figure of Len Haswell. He had no need
now to bellow in a bull-like duel of voices and ferocity. The stampede