make off with what fragments they could pick up; well-dressed,
well-fed club men, who had had a run of luck and who never carried
less than a thousand shares to keep their hands in; gray-haired
novices nervously rolling little wads of paper between their
fingers and thumbs--up every few minutes to listen to the talk of
the ticker, too anxious to wait until the sallow-faced young man
with the piece of chalk could make his record on the board. Some
of them had gathered together their last dollar. Two per cent. or
one percent, or even one-half of one per cent. rise or fall was
all that stood between them and ruin.

"Very sorry, sir, but you know we told you when you opened the
account that you must keep your margins up," Breen had said to an
old man. The old man knew; had known it all night as he lay awake,
afraid to tell his wife of the sword hanging above their heads.
Knew it, too, when without her knowledge he had taken the last
dollar of the little nest-egg to make good the deficit owed Breen
& Co. over and above his margins, together with some other things
"not negotiable"--not our kind of collateral but "stuff" that
could "lie in the safe until he could make some other
arrangement," the cashier had said with the firm's consent.

Queer safe, that of Breen & Co., and queer things went into it.
Most of them were still there. Jack thought some jeweller had sent
part of his stock down for safe-keeping when he first came across
a tiny drawer of which Breen alone kept the key. Each object could
tell a story: a pair of diamond ear-rings surely could, and so
could four pearls on a gold chain, and perhaps, too, a certain
small watch, the case set with jewels. One of these days they may
be redeemed, or they may not, depending upon whether the owners