Mr. Allen replied rather coldly that he would not sell any stock that
day.

Mr. Fox kept out of the way, and quietly attended to his routine as
usual, but there was a sardonic smile on his face, as if he were
gloating over some secret evil.

Tuesday, the long-expected day that the Allens believed would make one
of the most brilliant epochs in their history, dawned in appropriate
brightness. The sun dissipated the few opposing clouds and declined in
undimmed splendor, and Edith, who alone had fears and forebodings,
took the day as an omen that the storm had passed, and that better
days than ever were coming.

Invitations by the hundred, with imposing monogram and coat-of-arms,
had gone out, and acceptances had flowed back in full current. All
that lavish expenditure could secure in one of the most luxurious
social centres of the world had been obtained without stint to make
the entertainment perfect.

But one knew that it might become like Belshazzar's feast.

The avalanche often hangs over the Alpine passes so that a loud word
will bring it whirling down upon the hapless traveller. The avalanche
of ruin, impending over Mr. Allen, was so delicately poised that a
whisper could precipitate its crushing weight, and that whisper had
been spoken.

All the morning of Tuesday his stock was rising, and he resolved that
on the morning after the party he would commence selling rapidly, and,