The Red Book Magazine/Volume 6/Number 6/The Scoop That Carey Made

It was barely eight o'clock.

Throughout the fourth floor, from the windows which overlook Park Row on the front, to the rear ones which give you a glimpse of the East River at the rear, young men and old men were hurrying, typewriters pounding, telephone bells ringing. The cable editor was cursing the bundle of wires which had seated itself for a rest in the mathematical middle of a Reichstag report; the society editor was wondering and fuming over what he should do without Miss Catherton who, only yesterday, had elected to marry; another gentleman, with a green shade over his eyes, sat hunched in another little partitioned cell and damned fluently and eternally a certain reporter who had gone a-spree in regions unknown, while carrying almost the entire day's “headquarters” news on his dissipated person. Downstairs, more men were picking out column after column of type matter; farther down a last relay of workers were getting the monster presses into shape.

In fine, then, the New York Daily Chronicle's morning edition was going to press; and Penfield, who happened to be editor-in-chief, yawned wearily, and wondered whether it would ever get there.

Penfield had spent the latter part of the previous night at a very late supper; and for a man on whose shoulders a morning newspaper rests, it is a practice to be condemned. His jaws seemed unable to remain closed; his eyes watered at intervals, and even the strong cigar could not prevent it. Penfield's temper, too, was tired; indeed had the editor-in-chief been wont to descend to vulgarisms, he might aptly have described his condition as “'lookin' for a scrap.”

But he was not in the habit of saying such things. His refined and vitriolic sarcasm fell flatly, as a rule, upon unappreciative ears; and it was almost a satisfaction for him to witness the entrance of Carey in full evening dress, for Carey, at least, was educated to a pitch where pointed words struck home.

Very briefly may Carey, of the reportorial staff, be explained. His berth on the Chronicle was due to four things—the necessity of earning a living, his “nose for news,” his ability to write the English language, and the fact that he was probably Penfield's oldest and most intimate friend. If the nose did queer things occasionally, it was not Carey's fault. He possessed a very fine imagination, and he was using it in the construction of a novel which he expected to change materially two apparently fixed quantities—the trend of modern fiction and of his own finances.

Penfield scowled at him as he took a chair.

“What d'ye think this is—a ball room?” the editor-in-chief inquired, politely, his penetrating stare fixed relentlessly upon Carey's expansive shirt bosom.

“Well—I knew I'd get my copy in early tonight,” said Carey, apologetically, “I'm going to meet the better half at a little gathering uptown.”

“Lord!” Penfield whirled back and sought to blast the desk with his frown. “A man might think you were the 'sassiety' editor, all primed for business!”

“But, Joe—”

“Bah! It looks like the devil for the personnel of this office to see one of the crowd turn up for business every now and then in evening dress!”

“I don't believe anyone suffers much.”

“Maybe not, but it looks wretched!” persisted Mr. Penfield, snappishly.

“You've got 'em, haven't you?” smiled Carey.

“Got what?” rasped the editor-in-chief.

“Give it up. The crankytitis or the blazzaza inflammatus, or whatever it is that stirs people unduly.”

Penfield's lip curled in a contemptuous sneer.

“What the dickens ails you?” the reporter inquired frankly.

His chief, being himself unable to tell, held heavy silence.

For some time his well-manicured finger nails drummed out a tune on the arm of his chair, and not until Carey essayed to rise did he turn again. When his unlovely countenance did present itself to the other, the eyes were venomous.

“That Salvation Army story of yours, Harry, was distinctly poor—poor—poor!” he announced with solemn wrath.

“Eh? Why?”

“Because it was. It should have been funny; that's what I wanted. What did you do? Made it into a lot of oozy mush about the good work they're doing! Who wants that? Who wants to wallow around in a lot of full-flavored sentimentality, when they're looking for news and diversion? Eh?”

“Sentimentality be hanged!” replied Carey, warmly. "I—”

“No, 'be hanged' about it!”

“But I tell you there was no sentimentality about it either!”

“And I tell you that there was!”

“Why—”

“Oh, it's the same old story. I know what's wrong. 'That fiction-sopped brain of yours picks up things and idealizes them, plasters on the optimism, puts a coat of sun-proof English on top—and turns it in for news!”

“Well, it was news in this case!”

“News is news only when it is news!” replied Penfield enigmatically. “Nice English isn't news—”

“Nevertheless, my English is good enough for such magazines as—”

“Oh, nobody's kicking about your confounded English!” snapped the editor savagely. “It's just here: your head is full of short stories and novels—”

Carey's sensitive spot was sorely touched.

“Look here, Joe, it seems to me that about the best thing I can do is to hand in my resignation and get out of here!”

“What!” Penfield turned on him fiercely. “What d'ye want to do that for?”

“Because you're registering one eternal kick about the kind of stuff I turn in. This—”

“The thing I'm talking about now is your Salvation Army story.”

“I know, but it applies to pretty nearly everything else. Not being a wooden Indian, I have been able to understand many other sly remarks of yours on other matters.”

Penfield snorted. He had no more desire to lose Carey than Carey had to go. Indeed, in all the years of their friendship, this was the nearest approach to a quarrel he had ever known, and being in no humor to offer a deserved apology, he hid behind the sour mood again.

He turned back to his desk.

“Don't talk rot, Harry. Go out and get some news that is news.”

“I'll send in my resignation when—”

“Bah!”

The editor-in-chief was violently agitating the office central for a connection with the composing room. Apparently, he had quite forgotten the other's existence.

Carey waited a moment, then turned and left; and if he stamped somewhat and indisputably slammed the door, Penfield secretly did not blame him.

The author of the still unborn novel of the century went down in the elevator breathing hard. For five minutes he stood in the glass vestibule of the Chronicle building and glowered out on the snowstorm which swirled wildly along the Row.

Then he cooled and saw things in a saner light. His first impulse to resign on the spot was confronted with the fact of his need of bread and butter for himself and young Mrs. Carey. The novel, beyond any question, would be worth thousands; but it was not yet completed, and to complete it required a certain amount of food daily. If he cut out the Chronicle, he would be forced into hunting other work.

Yet his sensitive spirit chafed at such scenes as he had just left; he was honestly desirous of bringing in the kind of news that Penfield wanted and working it up as he wished.

In the end, the practical side of him reached a decision. It was late, but something or other startling might be worked up before the paper went to press. His only course was to take the chance and go out and look for it.

He returned to the booth in the hallway and telephoned uptown that he would not appear. After which, standing in the vestibule as he buttoned up his ulster and turned up the immense collar, he debated for another moment.

“I don't know, may as well try the millionaire crowd at the Burlingham Club,” he muttered. “Penfield's keen on financial news, and there's generally something doing up there.”

As a news scent it was perhaps more or less a forlorn hope, but big things had been doing in Wall street for a week or more, and bigger ones were predicted; it was the best direction he could see for a story. Carey shrunk down into his big collar and stepped out into the storm.

Some fifteen minutes afterward, he left the subway station and trudged along the rapidly piling drifts, through the cross street and up the avenue a block or two, to the expensive and exclusive Burlingham Club.

Several of the members he knew well, and before this they had pointed him toward one news item or another. As a rule, though, the tips had been wholly voluntary; and smarting still from the tilt with Penfield, he hesitated somehow to enter and pry about for secrets in that holy of holies.

He stood undecided on the curb for a while, glancing alternately from the shining private hansom at his side to the lighted windows behind him.

And as he stood there the big doors of the place swung open, and through the swirl of snow he made out a large figure in the square of bright light—three figures, indeed, for the first seemed to be shaking hands with two more farther back.

There was something familiar about that broad person. Carey shielded his eyes from the storm, and verified what he had at first suspected. It was none other than the great John Colvin.

That Colvin was a great operator in the stock market and a millionaire several times over, he knew quite well. That he was a crusty one he also knew, for once or twice he had talked with Chronicle men, after one or another of them had dared the depths of Colvin's private office.

And yet this same Colvin, it was reputed, had involved himself in some deals during the past week or two, which had set all the money powers of the country to surmising. If he would only relieve himself of a little of that information to Carey!

Well—he would not. That was practically certain; yet Carey stood beside the hansom still half of a mind to put a few leading questions to the dignitary and chance the almost inevitable rebuff.

Colvin's big voice called a last “good-bye” and the door closed. Carey heard a good-natured grunt or two, anent the snow upon the steps, and the other stood beside him.

Should he risk it or should he not? Carey's mouth was open to speak, when occurred the first of an evening full of strange events.

Colvin, about to step into his cab, turned on him suddenly and peered at the face within the ulster. His own broad countenance broke into a smile.

“Hel-lo, Jarvis!” he cried, and held forth a hand.

Almost involuntarily, Carey's hand went out and shook it. What was this? Had he been mistaken for someone else? He thrust his face forward, and the bright light from the cab lamp shone squarely upon it. Colvin might as well see his mistake at once.

But Colvin did not! His genial smile increased, and he laid an affectionate hand upon the other's shoulder.

“Well, who on earth would have expected to find you here, like a tramp in the snow?” he laughed. “Come on, sonny, jump in!”

“But I—” began Carey.

“Come along! You know perfectly well that you've got nothing else on this evening. Don't stand there in a drift; it's too devilish unpleasant. Up, my boy!”

The strong and friendly hand fairly lifted Carey into the cab. He sat down rather breathlessly. Colvin, pausing a moment, called:

“Home now, John,” and leaped in beside him.

Again that affectionate hand. It rested now upon Carey's knee and Colvin said:

“Well, Jarvis, of all the luck, this is the best; I'll swear it is! Beatrice telephoned me at the club that Carmody had gone back on us for the dinner tonight, and please to bring another man. I was stumped, yes, sir, I was! Didn't see a soul that I'd care to take home to this particular gathering, until I found you—dropped from the skies!”

“My dear sir,” said Carey, mildly, “whoever Jarvis may be, I am not Jarvis!”

Colvin leaned back and roared with merriment.

“So you're not Jarvis, eh? Well, that's good! Who are you, then?”

“My name happens to be Carey.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Carey, is it? What's the matter, old man? Police after you, or is it the personal tax people?”

Carey was silent, trying to think out the extraordinary adventure into which he seemed to have stumbled.

Palpably, he had been mistaken for someone else by the name of Jarvis. At the same time he was perfectly well aware that not more than one or two men in any given fifty thousand are so exactly alike that a square face-to-face examination will not reveal differences to a personal friend at once.

Jarvis appeared to be a warm friend of Colvin; yet Carey had faced the other; indeed, was facing him now in the intermittent glare of the corner arc-lamps and still he passed for Jarvis!

It was very much like some of his own fictional situations. At the first realization of the condition of things, he was on the point of holding up the cab, explaining briefly and departing on his quest of news; after a block or two of rolling along through the snow, he hesitated; at the end of five blocks, he had decided to see the queer adventure to the end—although the end most certainly would come when he removed his overcoat in the brilliancy of Colvin's home.

“Oh, no,” was his delayed and evasive answer to the millionaire's jocose query.

Colvin appeared not to be listening. His head was bowed, and his brow wrinkled in thought. He glanced up suddenly.

“I suppose you saw me saying 'good-bye' to Weatherford and Gales?”

“Er:—yes.”

“It's off!”

“What is?” asked Carey, rather blankly.

“Why, that whole C & F deal, of course. I'm out of it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir, you can bet it is!” replied Colvin, heartily. “Things were not going right, by a long shot. Gales was ready to step out, and Weatherford, too; and as I entertained much the same sentiments about C & F, we agreed to get from under and let things drop!”

He yawned, with the air of a man who has concluded the matter and is thoroughly satisfied with the conclusion.

“I'm mighty glad to be out, I can tell you that,” he said thoughtfully. “So far as I know, the deal hasn't leaked much yet, but if any one's been gambling on the great boom in C & F that at least one financial paper has been promising, they'll be sadly—left!”

“Then there's nothing in it?” said Carey, eagerly, for the news he was after seemed in sight.

“Nothing whatever, my boy. C & F's as dead as a doornail!”

C & F? C & F? What on earth was C & F? Carey tried hard to recall, and presently he remembered that the financial editor had been very curious indeed about C & F, a week or so before. Yes, he pieced the odds and ends together now and found something coherent. C & F was the very important stock which had hung so long in the balance, which was about due to go flying upward or crashing downward to everlasting destruction.

And so this C & F was doomed! Carey hazarded another shot.

“It has been looking pretty bright from the outside, Colvin.”

The other chuckled.

“Yes, I suppose it has. It'll look blacker than pitch this time tomorrow, Jarvis.”

He lapsed into silence and Carey waited patiently for the proffering of such further information as, in his ignorance, he dared not fish for.

It did not come. The cab rolled on, the millionaire smoking in comfortable silence; and before long the reins tightened and the cab drew up with a final slide before a canopy.

“Here we are!” cried Colvin, cheerily. “Beatrice will be glad to see you:—eh! Why, you've never met Mrs. Colvin, have you? I never thought of that. Well, she'll be thankful for your genial presence anyway.”

Carey was piloted up the steps, inwardly quaking, toward the blaze of light in the Colvin mansion.

Save for the bare fact, what might have been a real scoop in regard to C & F seemed hopeless now. In thirty seconds or so, the protecting ulster collar was to be taken away, to reveal him as himself—and in all probability a few hurried and embarrassed excuses would accompany him to the door.

The man relieved Colvin of his fur coat and Carey of his less elegant ulster; and the reporter waited for the crash.

It failed utterly to come! Colvin turned to him again, his smile broader and more genial than ever, and winked slyly.

“Lot of confounded fuss and feathers, eh? Hear the doves cooing in there. But we've got to have it A1, I suppose, if we're going to have women on earth. This way, Jarvis.”

Well, he was Jarvis! That seemed about settled. Whether or not he had lived thirty-two years as Carey, whether or not he had even journeyed uptown as Carey, he was Jarvis now. It was not an altogether uncongenial rôle, for Jarvis apparently belonged in New York's most elevated society. There were women in the drawing-room whose faces Carey knew only from the half-tones in the society editor's office; now he was going to meet them on equal terms! Truly, Jarvis' lot had been cast in pleasant places.

He was presented to the widely-reported Mrs. John Colvin herself and made duly welcome. He was launched among the three-dozen guests of the dinner party; and presently, beginning to get his bearings more accurately, he found himself at table, with a bud on one side and a trust president's wife on the other.

There were intervals that evening when Carey had difficulty in restraining a laugh. He seemed to have passed from his own sphere of existence and fallen, feet-first, into another. Mr. Jarvis, the friend of the host, made a reputation for conversational powers. The whole adventure, be the explanation what it might, was very pleasant; it appealed to his imagination and brought out the best and wittiest in him.

A dance followed the dinner, and in time the dance—early like all the Colvin affairs—came to an end, and the carriages bowled up noiselessly through the snow. The ball was over, and having carried off the Cinderella performance to the best of his ability, Carey felt it incumbent on him to depart.

Indeed, he made his way to Colvin, and there—

“My dear fellow!” that genial person exclaimed. “The very first time I've laid eyes on you in a year! You're going to put in an hour with me before you go. The cigars and decanters are still in the same old spot, you know!” he ended, in a soft chuckle.

One of the men approached to make his adieux to the host; Carey, resolving to see the finish, if the finish must further be protracted, stepped back.

The last carriage left the curb. Carey was alone with Colvin, and the latter breathed a sigh of relief.

“How I love these quiet little dinners!” he said with a comical grimace. Well, into the den we go!”

His hand again slipped under the other's arm.

Their little walk through the perfect lane of luxury ended in a small oak room at the very rear of the house—a cozy little place opening off the rather ostentatious library. There was a telephone upon the wall, a small desk near at hand, a leather couch, with pillows and furs; big easy chairs were there too, and a dainty cellaret and smoking table completed the hospitable air.

Carey glanced about approvingly; it was very much the sort of den he intended rigging up when the good time came. Colvin smiled.

And then, although for the moment his guest did not observe it, Colvin began to act oddly. He crossed to the telephone and stood before it for a moment, talking amiably the while. He backed slowly toward the door, eyeing the other in a most peculiar manner, and then backed quickly through and closed the door behind him.

With only his head and his broad shoulders appearing in the opening, he spoke:

"There—whatever your name may happen to be—you took the bait very nicely indeed! You'll have time to think it over between now and tomorrow evening, won't you?”

“Mr. Colvin!” Carey was fairly petrified.

“Your meals will be passed in—and I swear I'll have your head knocked off if you try to break by the man! Good night!”

Slam!

The lock snapped and, thunderstruck, Carey was left alone. Within very few seconds the power of motion returned to him. He leaped across the little apartment and tried the knob. It was fast. He raised an angry fist and hammered on the panel. And the reward he obtained was the sound of Colvin's calm voice, muffled and indistinct through the wood:

“He'll probably raise a little rumpus for a while, Henry, but it will do no harm. Keep awake and see that he doesn't get out—that is about all. If he should try anything unusual call me.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was silence in the library beyond.

Carey walked uncertainly to the couch and sat down feeling rather limp.

He had been fully aware that he was participating in some kind of mystery—but this! Why, he had actually been clapped a prisoner into this gorgeous box!

Carey was rather small in stature, but hot in spirit. When the full understanding of the predicament came over him, bis black eyes snapped furiously.

He rose with clenched fists. He was going to climb out of the window, get clear of the place and give Colvin the lawsuit of his existence—not to mention a little unpleasant publicity in the Chronicle.

He turned to find the most convenient exit. There was not a window in the room! The little place seemed to be in an extension; he saw now for the first time that it was lighted from a stained glass skylight in the ceiling, twelve feet or so above his head and utterly inaccessible.

That was a trifle disconcerting! Carey scratched his head and cast about again. The telephone! That was even more simple than taking French leave. He knew many people in the police Department; he would bring some of them down upon Colvin.

Carey had raised the receiver to his ear, had snapped the hook for several minutes without result, before it dawned upon him that the telephone was either purely ornamental or else out of commission. Not the former, certainly, for it bore every mark of a genuine instrument. He looked it over. The wires had been removed from the binding posts—the telephone was cut off from the outside world!

So that was the reason for Colvin's momentary tinkering with it! Carey dropped the receiver back into place and returned to the couch.

Colvin seemed to have been actuated by some very queer motives that evening. Had the supposedly level-headed millionaire gone mad, or was Carey really someone else? He began to believe that his spirit might have exchanged bodies with another; in fact, he was on the point of crossing to the mirror when the absurdity of the proceeding came over him and he halted with an impatient oath.

But if he were really himself, it seemed that someone must do some rather lengthy explaining of events. Personally, he was unable to formulate even a poor hypothesis.

He stepped over to the door again and hammered with his fists.

“Henry! Whoever you are, Henry!”

No answer.

“Henry! Henry, confound you!”

Still no reply. Carey's anger rose again and he kicked at the heavy door until the place resounded.

“The mahster says you're to be quiet, sir!” said a slow voice.

Silence again. The reporter realized the utter uselessness of exertion. He wiped his forehead and looked about again, this time a trifle wildly.

A useless telephone, a solid door with a guard on the other side, and an exit above that could not possibly be reached: the outlook for a speedy departure from Colvin's hospitality was not bright.

And still—that telephone! Nothing but the wires had been removed. Carey looked about for something metallic to take their place, and found nothing.

He went through his pockets, and a chuckle escaped him. The silver penknife he had carried so long came forth. He searched again, then crossed to the open desk and looked it over. Hardly by design, none of the fittings were of metal. He opened drawer after drawer, and finally a silver penholder revealed itself. He snatched it up and went back to the telephone. Within five minutes, he had wedged the articles into place, the phone was connected and ready for business again!

But with his hand raised to call up Central, he paused and pondered; and when he had pondered sufficiently he returned to the door.

“Henry! Go tell your master that I've put his telephone into working order again, and that unless he comes down here for an interview within five minutes, I shall call up police headquarters and have a patrol full of men sent here to get me out!”

“What's that sir?” cried a startled voice.

Carey repeated the message. Very faintly, he could hear footsteps receding from the door.

True to his threat he drew his watch and counted the seconds. One minute—two—three—four! The fifth had nearly ended when the latch rattled and Colvin's head appeared above a heavy bathrobe. In one hand he held a thick cane and his fingers gripped it almost lovingly; but Carey declined to take it into consideration.

“I want to know what the devil you mean by locking me up here?” he announced, wrathfully. “And you will explain or see trouble, my man!”

Colvin's face was hard and angry. He threw open the door and raised the stick.

“Come out here!” he said curtly. “And remember this: If you try to cut and run, I'll batter your brains out with this stick—and by George! I mean it!”

Carey's blood was boiling.

“You raise that stick to me again and I'll make your life a Hades on earth while there's a court or a newspaper left in the state!” he cried furiously. “I want to know the meaning of this, and I want to know it quick!”

“I suppose I'm an idiot to tell you what you know better than I,” sneered the millionaire. “But it may come handy later. You, my friend, with your grand assumption of anger, are the hired spy of the Bates gang, the Bennett Bank crowd that has been trying to get its knife into me for so long. You're the short dark man that has been set to watch me, to see where I went and whom I talked with in connection with C & F. You saw me at the door with Weatherford and Gales, and you thought your final tip on C & F was straight, didn't you?”

“What?” gasped Carey.

“And you bit very nicely indeed, did you not, when it ocurred [sic] to me to work a little game and bring you here? You thought you'd just clinch matters by taking advantage of a supposed mistaken identity, and perhaps worm the very last detail of that C & F deal out of me, eh?” He laughed shortly. “Well, I gave you all the information you were after, I think. And here you stay—and in a room without a telephone—until the Stock Exchange closes tomorrow! That's as flat as I can make it, and if you choose to try for a little trouble—well, there's a penalty for dogging a man.”

“And there's another penalty for restraining a man's liberty!” retorted Carey. “And, furthermore, I'm inclined to think that you've gone insane!”

“Really?” Colvin's lip curled scornfully. “I've dealt with too many of your kind, young man, to be deceived at this late date. Why, Carter even telephoned me your description at the club and said that the chances were for your waiting outside, you fool!”

“Did he?” said Carey, quietly. “Then Carter was as misguided as yourself. I'm not acquainted with your short, dark man, but I can assure you that he and I are not the same. My name is Henry Carey, and I'm a newspaper man.”

“A newspaper man!”

“Precisely; a reporter on the Chronicle, too, a paper not altogether friendly to some of the big money interests. Look! Here's my watch, with a monogram; here's my cigar-case, similarly marked.” He drew a wallet and threw a dozen of his engraved Chronicle cards on the table. “There is a little more evidence. You'll find my theater credentials in the ulster pocket. If you want further information, see Mr. Penfield of the Chronicle tomorrow evening!”

Colvin examined each article carefully. The stick dropped from his hand. His face turned red, then purple, then white. He crossed the room, breathing quickly.

“Good Lord! Good Lord! What have I done?” escaped him.

“You've put yourself in a hole!” said Carey, calmly.

Colvin, staring at the floor, gnawed his mustache for a minute or two. When he looked up, his countenance was very amiable, very apologetic, and more than a little troubled.

“Mr. Carey,” he said, “I beg your pardon—humbly. It was an asinine mistake of mine.”

“It was all of that,” said the reporter, tartly.

“And I want your word that it will not get in the papers. You'll lose nothing by it. May I have it?”

“No, sir, you may not!”

"But—good gracious, man? Think of what it means to me! Tomorrow—”

“C & F, I presume?”

“Yes—C & F. Mr. Carey, what sum of money—or what else—will induce you to keep this quiet?”

“Inasmuch as it seems to be a very nice piece of news—no sum at all!”

Colvin sat down beside the table and groaned. His puckered face regarded the other almost helplessly.

Carey, watching him with no small satisfaction, was turning over the situation.

“It must be a unique sensation for you to be in someone else's power,” he observed, pleasantly. “You want me to pledge my word not to print this story?”

“I do—emphatically.”

“Then tell me the absolute truth, and I may. There is going to be a great rise in C & F, is there not?”

“The biggest in history.”

“When is it coming off?”

“From ten until three tomorrow.”

“Will you give me some details?”

“Will you swear to print nothing of them or of this in tomorrow morning's Chronicle?”

Carey glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past two. The Chronicle forms had closed an hour ago; some of the early papers for out-of-town were probably on the trains by now.

“I will and I do,” he said.

“Then I'll tell you just one thing,” said Colvin, with acid solemnity. “From the time 'Change opens tomorrow morning, until it closes at three, C & F is going to make a record rise. Before night she'll be worth three times what she's worth at this minute. It has been preparing for weeks.”

Carey sat down, across the table.

“Look here, Mr. Colvin, I gave you my word that the Chronicle would print nothing of this tomorrow morning, and it will not. But the first of our evening editions is on the street by nine o'clock, and there is nothing to prevent my giving the staff a tip.”

“Man!” Colvin started up, and his eyes were dilated with horror.

“Oh, hold on. I'm not going to do it, except on certain conditions. Mr. Colvin, I want to take advantage of that little C & F performance!”

“Very well, you have all the information you need now,” said the millionaire, grimly.

“True, but not the money,” replied Carey, pleasantly. “If I should appear at your office tomorrow morning and ask for a small loan to carry me through the day—just enough to clear a hundred thousand or so on the day's trading, how would the request be received?”

Colvin stared wonderingly at him. His hard look faded after a minute, and a queer smile took its place. He stretched his hand across to Carey.

“My young friend, it's a bargain. You possess the calmest nerve, I think, of any single individual I ever met—but it's a bargain and you have my word for it. Be on hand before nine, if you can possibly manage it.”

It was barely eight o'clock.

Throughout the fourth floor and the other floors of the Chronicle establishment, matters were proceeding much as they proceeded seven nights every week.

Save for one thing, perhaps. Penfield, conscience stricken, thought he knew precisely why Carey had not turned up for work that afternoon, and he was cudgelling his brains for the most graceful way of “making up.”

He started then, as Carey entered, tired and pale, but with dancing eyes.

“Hello, Joe!” The reporter seemed to bear no ill will.

“Hello, old man. Thought you were lost. Been a great day in Wall street, they say. If I'd known that you were in bed early enough last night, I'd have asked you to go down there.”

“Thank you,” smiled Carey. “I've passed the day in the neighborhood.

“You did!” Penfield laughed. “What sort of beat this time?”

“Well, it was the sort of beat that will take me out of newspaper work altogether and let me finish up the novel, Joe. I beat the market; yes, sir, with a little kindly assistance from an eminent financier, I beat the market! And out of it I hammered—” he consulted a slip of paper in his hand—“just two hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars!”