Wall Street Stories/The Woman and Her Bonds

seemed to Fullerton F. Colwell, of the famous Stock-Exchange house of Wilson & Graves, that he had done his full duty by his friend Harry Hunt. He was a director in a half score of companies—financial débutantes which his firm had “brought out” and over whose stock-market destinies he presided. His partners left a great deal to him, and even the clerks in the office ungrudgingly acknowledged that Mr. Colwell was “the hardest worked man in the place, barring none”—an admission that means much to those who know it is always the downtrodden clerks who do all the work and their employers who take all the profit and credit. Possibly the important young men who did all the work in Wilson & Graves’ office bore witness to Mr. Colwell’s industry so cheerfully, because Mr. Colwell was ever inquiring, very courteously, and, above all, sympathetically, into the amount of work each man had to perform, and suggesting, the next moment, that the laborious amount in question was indisputably excessive. Also, it was he who raised salaries; wherefore he was the most charming as well as the busiest man there. Of his partners, John G. Wilson was a consumptive, forever going from one health resort to another, devoting his millions to the purchase of railroad tickets in the hope of out-racing Death. George B. Graves was a dyspeptic, nervous, irritable, and, to boot, penurious; a man whose chief recommendation at the time Wilson formed the firm had been his cheerful willingness to do all the dirty work. Frederick R. Denton was busy in the “Board Room”—the Stock Exchange—all day, executing orders, keeping watch over the market behavior of the stocks with which the firm was identified, and from time to time hearing things not meant for his ears, being the truth regarding Wilson & Graves. But Fullerton F. Colwell had to do everything—in the stock market and in the office. He conducted the manipulation of the Wilson & Graves stocks, took charge of the un-nefarious part of the numerous pools formed by the firm’s customers—Mr. Graves attending to the other details—and had a hand in the actual management of various corporations. Also, he conferred with a dozen people daily—chiefly “big people,” in Wall Street parlance—who were about to “put through” stock-market “deals.” He had devoted his time, which was worth thousands, and his brain, which was worth millions, to disentangling his careless friend’s affairs, and when it was all over and every claim adjusted, and he had refused the executor’s fees to which he was entitled, it was found that poor Harry Hunt’s estate not only was free from debt, but consisted of $38,000 in cash, deposited in the Trolleyman’s Trust Company, subject to Mrs. Hunt’s order, and drawing interest at the rate of 2½ per cent per annum. He had done his work wonderfully well, and, in addition to the cash, the widow owned an unencumbered house Harry had given her in his lifetime.

Not long after the settlement of the estate Mrs. Hunt called at his office. It was a very busy day. The bears were misbehaving—and misbehaving mighty successfully. Alabama Coal & Iron—the firm’s great specialty—was under heavy fire from “Sam” Sharpe’s Long Tom as well as from the room-traders’ Maxims. All that Colwell could do was to instruct Denton, who was on the ground, to “support” ''Ala. C. & I.'' sufficiently to discourage the enemy, and not enough to acquire the company’s entire capital stock. He was himself at that moment practising that peculiar form of financial dissimulation which amounts to singing blithely at the top of your voice when your beloved sackful of gold has been ripped by bear-paws and the coins are pouring out through the rent. Every quotation was of importance; a half inch of tape might contain an epic of disaster. It was not wise to fail to read every printed character.

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

He ceased to pass the tape through his fingers, and turned quickly, almost apprehensively, for a woman’s voice was not heard with pleasure at an hour of the day when distractions were undesirable.

“Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, very politely. “I am very glad indeed to see you. And how do you do?” He shook hands, and led her, a bit ceremoniously, to a huge armchair. His manners endeared him even to the big Wall Street operators, who were chiefly interested in the terse speech of the ticker.

“Of course, you are very well, Mrs. Hunt. Don’t tell me you are not.”

“Ye-es,” hesitatingly. “As well as I can hope to be since—since”

“Time alone, dear Mrs. Hunt, can help us. You must be very brave. It is what he would have liked.”

“Yes, I know,” she sighed. “I suppose I must.”

There was a silence. He stood by, deferentially sympathetic.

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick,” said the ticker.

What did it mean, in figures? Reduced to dollars and cents, what did the last three brassy taps say? Perhaps the bears were storming the Alabama Coal & Iron intrenchments of “scaled buying orders”; perhaps Colwell’s trusted lieutenant, Fred Denton, had repulsed the enemy. Who was winning? A spasm, as of pain, passed over Mr. Fullerton F. Colwell’s grave face. But the next moment he said to her, slightly conscience-strickenly, as if he reproached himself for thinking of the stock market in her presence: “You must not permit yourself to brood, Mrs. Hunt. You know what I thought of Harry, and I need not tell you how glad I shall be to do what I may, for his sake, Mrs. Hunt, and for your own.”

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick!” repeated the ticker.

To avoid listening to the voluble little machine, he went on: “Believe me, Mrs. Hunt, I shall be only too glad to serve you.”

“You are so kind, Mr. Colwell,” murmured the widow; and after a pause: “I came to see you about that money.”

“Yes?”

“They tell me in the trust company that if I leave the money there without touching it I’ll make $79 a month.”

“Let me see; yes; that is about what you may expect.”

“Well, Mr. Colwell, I can’t live on that. Willie’s school costs me $50, and then there’s Edith’s clothes,” she went on, with an air which implied that as for herself she wouldn’t care at all. “You see, he was so indulgent, and they are used to so much. Of course, it’s a blessing we have the house; but taxes take up so much; and—isn’t there some way of investing the money so it could bring more?”

“I might buy some bonds for you. But for your principal to be absolutely safe at all times, you will have to invest in very high-grade securities, which will return to you about 3½ per cent. That would mean, let’s see, $110 a month.”

“And Harry spent $10,000 a year,” she murmured, complainingly.

“Harry was always—er—rather extravagant.”

“Well, I’m glad he enjoyed himself while he lived,” she said, quickly. Then, after a pause: “And, Mr. Colwell, if I should get tired of the bonds, could I always get my money back?”

“You could always find a ready market for them. You might sell them for a little more or for a little less than you paid.”

“I shouldn’t like to sell them,” she said, with a business air, “for less than I paid. What would be the sense?”

“You are right, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, encouragingly. “It wouldn’t be very profitable, would it?”

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-tick!” said the ticker. It was whirring away at a furious rate. Its story is always interesting when it is busy. And Colwell had not looked at the tape in fully five minutes!

“Couldn’t you buy something for me, Mr. Colwell, that when I came to sell it I could get more than it cost me?”

“No man can guarantee that, Mrs. Hunt.”

“I shouldn’t like to lose the little I have,” she said, hastily.

“Oh, there is no danger of that. If you will give me a check for $35,000, leaving $3,000 with the trust company for emergencies, I shall buy some bonds which I feel reasonably certain will advance in price within a few months.”

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick,” interrupted the ticker. In some inexplicable way it seemed to him that the brassy sound had an ominous ring, so he added: “But you will have to let me know promptly, Mrs. Hunt. The stock market, you see, is not a polite institution. It waits for none, not even for your sex.”

“Gracious me, must I take the money out of the bank to-day and bring it to you?”

“A check will do.” He began to drum on the desk nervously with his fingers, but ceased abruptly as he became aware of it.

“Very well, I’ll send it to you to-day. I know you’re very busy, so I won’t keep you any longer. And you’ll buy good, cheap bonds for me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hunt.”

“There’s no danger of losing, is there, Mr. Colwell?”

“None whatever. I have bought some for Mrs. Colwell, and I would not run the slightest risk. You need have no fear about them.”

“It’s exceedingly kind of you, Mr. Colwell. I am more grateful than I can say. I—I”

“The way to please me is not to mention it, Mrs. Hunt. I am going to try to make some money for you, so that you can at least double the income from the trust company.”

“Thanks, ever so much. Of course, I know you are thoroughly familiar with such things. But I’ve heard so much about the money everybody loses in Wall Street that I was half afraid.”

“Not when you buy good bonds, Mrs. Hunt.”

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Remember, whenever I may be of service you are to let me know immediately.”

“Oh, thank you, so much, Mr. Colwell. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”

Mrs. Hunt sent him a check for $35,000, and Colwell bought 100 five-per cent gold bonds of the Manhattan Electric Light, Heat & Power Company, paying 96 for them.

“These bonds,” he wrote to her, “will surely advance in price, and when they touch a good figure I shall sell a part, and keep the balance for you as an investment. The operation is partly speculative, but I assure you the money is safe. You will have an opportunity to increase your original capital and your entire funds will then be invested in these same bonds—Manhattan Electric 5s—as many as the money will buy. I hope within six months to secure for you an income of twice as much as you have been receiving from the trust company.”

The next morning she called at his office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. I trust you are well.”

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell. I know I am an awful bother to you, but”

“You are greatly mistaken, Mrs. Hunt.”

“You are very kind. You see, I don’t exactly understand about those bonds. I thought you could tell me. I’m so stupid,” archly.

“I won’t have you prevaricate about yourself, Mrs. Hunt. Now, you gave me $35,000, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Her tone indicated that she granted that much and nothing more.

“Well, I opened an account for you with our firm. You were credited with the amount. I then gave an order to buy one hundred bonds of $1,000 each. We paid 96 for them.”

“I don’t follow you quite, Mr. Colwell. I told you”—another arch smile—“I was so stupid!”

“It means that for each $1,000–bond $960 was paid. It brought the total up to $96,000.”

“But I only had $35,000 to begin with. You don’t mean I’ve made that much, do you?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Hunt. You put in $35,000; that was your margin, you know; and we put in the other $61,000 and kept the bonds as security. We owe you $35,000, and you owe us $61,000, and”

“But—I know you’ll laugh at me, Mr. Colwell—but I really can’t help thinking it’s something like the poor people you read about, who mortgage their houses, and they go on, and the first thing you know some real-estate agent owns the house and you have nothing. I have a friend, Mrs. Stilwell, who lost hers that way,” she finished, corroboratively.

“This is not a similar case, exactly. The reason why you use a margin is that you can do much more with the money that way than if you bought outright. It protects your broker against a depreciation in the security purchased, which is all he wants. In this case you theoretically owe us $61,000, but the bonds are in your name, and they are worth $96,000, so that if you want to pay us back, all you have to do is to order us to sell the bonds, return the money we have advanced, and keep the balance of your margin; that is, of your original sum.”

“I don’t understand why I should owe the firm. I shouldn’t mind so much owing you, because I know you’d never take advantage of my ignorance of business matters. But I’ve never met Mr. Wilson nor Mr. Graves. I don’t even know how they look.”

“But you know me,” said Mr. Colwell, with patient courtesy.

“Oh, it isn’t that I’m afraid of being cheated, Mr. Colwell,” she said hastily and reassuringly; “but I don’t wish to be under obligations to any one, particularly utter strangers; though, of course, if you say it is all right, I am satisfied.”

“My dear Mrs. Hunt, don’t worry about this matter. We bought these bonds at 96. If the price should advance to 110, as I think it will, then you can sell three fifths for $66,000, pay us back $61,000, and keep $5,000 for emergencies in savings banks drawing 4 per cent interest, and have in addition 40 bonds which will pay you $2,000 a year.”

“That would be lovely. And the bonds are now 96?”

“Yes; you will always find the price in the financial page of the newspapers, where it says BONDS. Look for ''Man. Elec. 5s'',” and he showed her.

“Oh, thanks, ever so much. Of course, I am a great bother, I know”

“You are nothing of the kind, Mrs. Hunt. I’m only too glad to be of the slightest use to you.”

Mr. Colwell, busy with several important deals, did not follow closely the fluctuations in the price of Manhattan Electric Light, Heat & Power Company 5s. The fact that there had been any change at all was made clear to him by Mrs. Hunt. She called a few days after her first visit, with perturbation written large on her face. Also, she wore the semi-resolute look of a person who expects to hear unacceptable excuses.

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Hunt? Well, I hope.”

“Oh, I am well enough. I wish I could say as much for my financial matters.” She had acquired the phrase from the financial reports which she had taken to reading religiously every day.

“Why, how is that?”

“They are 95 now,” she said, a trifle accusingly.

“Who are they, pray, Mrs. Hunt?” in surprise.

“The bonds. I saw it in last night’s paper.”

Mr. Colwell smiled. Mrs. Hunt almost became indignant at his levity.

“Don’t let that worry you, Mrs. Hunt. The bonds are all right. The market is a trifle dull; that’s all.”

“A friend,” she said, very slowly, “who knows all about Wall Street, told me last night that it made a difference of $1,000 to me.”

“So it does, in a way; that is, if you tried to sell your bonds. But as you are not going to do so until they show you a handsome profit, you need not worry. Don’t be concerned about the matter, I beg of you. When the time comes for you to sell the bonds I’ll let you know. Never mind if the price goes off a point or two. You are amply protected. Even if there should be a panic I’ll see that you are not sold out, no matter how low the price goes. You are not to worry about it; in fact, you are not to think about it at all.”

“Oh, thanks, ever so much, Mr. Colwell. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. But I knew”

A clerk came in with some stock certificates and stopped short. He wanted Mr. Colwell’s signature in a hurry, and at the same time dared not interrupt. Mrs. Hunt thereupon rose and said: “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Good morning, Mr. Colwell. Thanks ever so much.”

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Hunt. Good morning. You are going to do very well with those bonds if you only have patience.”

“Oh, I’ll be patient now that I know all about it; yes, indeed. And I hope your prophecy will be fulfilled. Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

Little by little the bonds continued to decline. The syndicate in charge was not ready to move them. But Mrs. Hunt’s unnamed friend—her Cousin Emily’s husband—who was employed in an up-town bank, did not know all the particulars of that deal. He knew the Street in the abstract, and had accordingly implanted the seed of insomnia in her quaking soul. Then, as he saw values decline, he did his best to make the seed grow, fertilizing a naturally rich soil with ominous hints and head-shakings and with phrases that made her firmly believe he was gradually and considerately preparing her for the worst. On the third day of her agony Mrs. Hunt walked into Colwell’s office. Her face was pale and she looked distressed. Mr. Colwell sighed involuntarily—a scarcely perceptible and not very impolite sigh—and said: “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”

She nodded gravely and, with a little gasp, said, tremulously: “The bonds!”

“Yes? What about them?”

She gasped again, and said: “The p-p-papers!”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Hunt?”

She dropped into a chair nervelessly, as if exhausted. After a pause she said: “It’s in all the papers. I thought the Herald might be mistaken, so I bought the Tribune and the Times and the Sun. But no. It was the same in all. It was,” she added, tragically, “93!”

“Yes?” he said, smilingly.

The smile did not reassure her; it irritated her and aroused her suspicions. By him, of all men, should her insomnia be deemed no laughing matter.

“Doesn’t that mean a loss of $3,000?” she asked. There was a deny-it-if-you-dare inflection in her voice of which she was not conscious. Her cousin’s husband had been a careful gardener.

“No, because you are not going to sell your bonds at 93, but at 110, or thereabouts.”

“But if I did want to sell the bonds now, wouldn’t I lose $3,000?” she queried, challengingly. Then she hastened to answer herself: “Of course I would, Mr. Colwell. Even I can tell that.”

“You certainly would, Mrs. Hunt; but”

“I knew I was right,” with irrepressible triumph.

“But you are not going to sell the bonds.”

“Of course, I don’t want to, because I can’t afford to lose any money, much less $3,000. But I don’t see how I can help losing it. I was warned from the first,” she said, as if that made it worse. “I certainly had no business to risk my all.” She had waived the right to blame some one else, and there was something consciously just and judicial about her attitude that was eloquent. Mr. Colwell was moved by it.

“You can have your money back, Mrs. Hunt, if you wish it,” he told her, quite unprofessionally. “You seem to worry about it so much.”

“Oh, I am not worrying, exactly; only, I do wish I hadn’t bought—I mean, the money was so safe in the Trolleyman’s Trust Company, that I can’t help thinking I might just as well have let it stay where it was, even if it didn’t bring me in so much. But, of course, if you want me to leave it here,” she said, very slowly to give him every opportunity to contradict her, “of course, I’ll do just as you say.”

“My dear Mrs. Hunt,” Colwell said, very politely, “my only desire is to please you and to help you. When you buy bonds you must be prepared to be patient. It may take months before you will be able to sell yours at a profit, and I don’t know how low the price will go in the meantime. Nobody can tell you that, because nobody knows. But it need make no difference to you whether the bonds go to 90, or even to 85, which is unlikely.”

“Why, how can you say so, Mr. Colwell? If the bonds go to 90, I’ll lose $6,000—my friend said it was one thousand for every number down. And at 85 that would be”—counting on her fingers—“eleven numbers, that is, eleven—thousand—dollars!” And she gazed at him, awe-strickenly, reproachfully. “How can you say it would make no difference, Mr. Colwell?”

Mr. Colwell fiercely hated the unnamed “friend,” who had told her so little and yet so much. But he said to her, mildly: “I thought that I had explained all that to you. It might hurt a weak speculator if the bonds declined ten points, though such a decline is utterly improbable. But it won’t affect you in the slightest, since, having an ample margin, you would not be forced to sell. You would simply hold on until the price rose again. Let me illustrate. Supposing your house cost $10,000, and”

“Harry paid $32,000,” she said, correctingly. On second thought she smiled, in order to let him see that she knew her interpolation was irrelevant. But he might as well know the actual cost.

“Very well,” he said, good-humoredly, “we’ll say $32,000, which was also the price of every other house in that block. And suppose that, owing to some accident, or for any reason whatever, nobody could be found to pay more than $25,000 for one of the houses, and three or four of your neighbors sold theirs at that price. But you wouldn’t, because you knew that in the fall, when everybody came back to town, you would find plenty of people who’d give you $50,000 for your house; you wouldn’t sell it for $25,000, and you wouldn’t worry. Would you, now?” he finished, cheerfully.

“No,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t worry. But,” hesitatingly, for, after all, she felt the awkwardness of her position, “I wish I had the money instead of the bonds.” And she added, self-defensively: “I haven’t slept a wink for three nights thinking about this.”

The thought of his coming emancipation cheered Mr. Colwell immensely. “Your wish shall be gratified, Mrs. Hunt. Why didn’t you ask me before, if you felt that way?” he said, in mild reproach. And he summoned a clerk.

“Make out a check for $35,000 payable to Mrs. Rose Hunt, and transfer the 100 Manhattan Electric Light 5s to my personal account.”

He gave her the check and told her: “Here is the money. I am very sorry that I unwittingly caused you some anxiety. But all’s well that ends well. Any time that I can be of service to you—Not at all. Don’t thank me, please; no. Good morning.”

But he did not tell her that by taking over her account he paid $96,000 for bonds he could have bought in the open market for $93,000. He was the politest man in Wall Street; and, after all, he had known Hunt for many years.

A week later Manhattan Electric 5–per cent bonds sold at 96 again. Mrs. Hunt called on him. It was noon, and she evidently had spent the morning mustering up courage for the visit. They greeted one another, she embarrassed and he courteous and kindly as usual.

“Mr. Colwell, you still have those bonds, haven’t you?”

“Why, yes.”

“I—I think I’d like to take them back.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Hunt. I’ll find out how much they are selling for.” He summoned a clerk to get a quotation on Manhattan Electric 5s. The clerk telephoned to one of their bond-specialists, and learned that the bonds could be bought at 96½. He reported to Mr. Colwell, and Mr. Colwell told Mrs. Hunt, adding: “So you see they are practically where they were when you bought them before.”

She hesitated. “I—I—didn’t you buy them from me at 93? I’d like to buy them back at the same price I sold them to you.”

“No, Mrs. Hunt,” he said; “I bought them from you at 96.”

“But the price was 93.” And she added, corroboratively: “Don’t you remember it was in all the papers?”

“Yes, but I gave you back exactly the same amount that I received from you, and I had the bonds transferred to my account. They stand on our books as having cost me 96.”

“But couldn’t you let me have them at 93?” she persisted.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hunt, but I don’t see how I could. If you buy them in the open market now, you will be in exactly the same position as before you sold them, and you will make a great deal of money, because they are going up now. Let me buy them for you at 96½.”

“At 93, you mean,” with a tentative smile.

“At whatever price they may be selling for,” he corrected, patiently.

“Why did you let me sell them, Mr. Colwell?” she asked, plaintively.

“But, my dear madam, if you buy them now, you will be no worse off than if you had kept the original lot.”

“Well, I don’t see why it is that I have to pay 96½ now for the very same bonds I sold last Tuesday at 93. If it was some other bonds,” she added, “I wouldn’t mind so much.”

“My dear Mrs. Hunt, it makes no difference which bonds you hold. They have all risen in price, yours and mine and everybody’s; your lot was the same as any other lot. You see that, don’t you?”

“Ye-es; but”

“Well, then, you are exactly where you were before you bought any. You’ve lost nothing, because you received your money back intact.”

“I’m willing to buy them,” she said resolutely, “at 93.”

“Mrs. Hunt, I wish I could buy them for you at that price. But there are none for sale cheaper than 96½.”

“Oh, why did I let you sell my bonds!” she said, disconsolately.

“Well, you worried so much because they had declined that”

“Yes, but I didn’t know anything about business matters. You know I didn’t, Mr. Colwell,” she finished, accusingly.

He smiled in his good-natured way. “Shall I buy the bonds for you?” he asked. He knew the plans of the syndicate in charge, and being sure the bonds would advance, he thought she might as well share in the profits. At heart he felt sorry for her.

She smiled back. “Yes,” she told him, “at 93.” It did not seem right to her, notwithstanding his explanations, that she should pay 96½ for them, when the price a few days ago was 93.

“But how can I, if they are 96½?”

“Mr. Colwell, it is 93 or nothing.” She was almost pale at her own boldness. It really seemed to her as if the price had only been waiting for her to sell out in order to advance. And though she wanted the bonds, she did not feel like yielding.

“Then I very much fear it will have to be nothing.”

“Er—good morning, Mr. Colwell,” on the verge of tears.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.” And before he knew it, forgetting all that had gone before, he added: “Should you change your mind, I should be glad to”

“I know I wouldn’t pay more than 93 if I lived to be a thousand years.” She looked expectantly at him, to see if he had repented, and she smiled—the smile that is a woman’s last resort, that says, almost articulately: “I know you will, of course, do as I ask. My question is only a formality. I know your nobility, and I fear not.” But he only bowed her out, very politely.

On the Stock Exchange the price of ''Man. Elec. L. H. & P. Co. 5s'' rose steadily. Mrs. Hunt, too indignant to feel lachrymose, discussed the subject with her Cousin Emily and her husband. Emily was very much interested. Between her and Mrs. Hunt they forced the poor man to make strange admissions, and, deliberately ignoring his feeble protests, they worked themselves up to the point of believing that, while it would be merely generous of Mr. Colwell to let his friend’s widow have the bonds at 93, it would be only his obvious duty to let her have them at 96½. The moment they reached this decision Mrs. Hunt knew how to act. And the more she thought the more indignant she became. The next morning she called on her late husband’s executor and friend.

Her face wore the look often seen on those ardent souls who think their sacred and inalienable rights have been trampled upon by the tyrant Man, but who at the same time feel certain the hour of retribution is near.

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell. I came to find out exactly what you propose to do about my bonds.” Her voice conveyed the impression that she expected violent opposition, perhaps even bad language, from him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Why, what do you mean?”

His affected ignorance deepened the lines on her face. Instead of bluster he was using finesse!

“I think you ought to know, Mr. Colwell,” she said, meaningly.

“Well, I really don’t. I remember you wouldn’t heed my advice when I told you not to sell out, and again when I advised you to buy them back.”

“Yes, at 96½,” she burst out, indignantly.

“Well, if you had, you would to-day have a profit of over $7,000.”

“And whose fault is it that I haven’t?” She paused for a reply. Receiving none, she went on: “But never mind; I have decided to accept your offer,” very bitterly, as if a poor widow could not afford to be a chooser; “I’ll take those bonds at 96½.” And she added, under her breath: “Although it really ought to be 93.”

“But, Mrs. Hunt,” said Colwell, in measureless astonishment, “you can’t do that, you know. You wouldn’t buy them when I wanted you to, and I can’t buy them for you now at 96½. Really, you ought to see that.”

Cousin Emily and she had gone over a dozen imaginary interviews with Mr. Colwell—of varying degrees of storminess—the night before, and they had, in an idle moment, and not because they really expected it, represented Mr. Colwell as taking that identical stand. Mrs. Hunt was, accordingly, prepared to show both that she knew her moral and technical rights, and that she was ready to resist any attempt to ignore them. So she said, in a voice so ferociously calm that it should have warned any guilty man: “Mr. Colwell, will you answer me one question?”

“A thousand, Mrs. Hunt, with pleasure.”

“No; only one. Have you kept the bonds that I bought, or have you not?”

“What difference does that make, Mrs. Hunt?”

He evaded the answer!

“Yes or no, please. Have you, or have you not, those same identical bonds?”

“Yes; I have. But”

“And to whom do those bonds belong, by rights?” She was still pale, but resolute.

“To me, certainly.”

“To you, Mr. Colwell?” She smiled. And in her smile were a thousand feelings; but not mirth.

“Yes, Mrs. Hunt, to me.”

“And do you propose to keep them?”

“I certainly do.”

“Not even if I pay 96½ will you give them to me?”

“Mrs. Hunt,” Colwell said with warmth “when I took those bonds off your hands at 93 it represented a loss on paper of $3,000”

She smiled in pity—pity for his judgment in thinking her so hopelessly stupid.

“And when you wanted me to sell them back to you at 93 after they had risen to 96½, if I had done as you wished, it would have meant an actual loss of $3,000 to me.”

Again she smiled—the same smile, only the pity was now mingled with rising indignation.

“For Harry’s sake I was willing to pocket the first loss, in order that you might not worry. But I didn’t see why I should make you a present of $3,000,” he said, very quietly.

“I never asked you to do it,” she retorted, hotly.

“If you had lost any money through my fault, it would have been different. But you had your original capital unimpaired. You had nothing to lose, if you bought back the same bonds at practically the same price. Now you come and ask me to sell you the bonds at 96½ that are selling in the market for 104, as a reward, I suppose, for your refusal to take my advice.”

“Mr. Colwell, you take advantage of my position to insult me. And Harry trusted you so much! But let me tell you that I am not going to let you do just as you please. No doubt you would like to have me go home and forget how you’ve acted toward me. But I am going to consult a lawyer, and see if I am to be treated this way by a friend of my husband’s. You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Colwell.”

“Yes, madam, I certainly have. And, in order to avoid making any more, you will oblige me greatly by never again calling at this office. By all means consult a lawyer. Good morning, madam,” said the politest man in Wall Street.

“We’ll see,” was all she said; and she left the room.

Colwell paced up and down his office nervously. It was seldom that he allowed himself to lose his temper, and he did not like it. The ticker whirred away excitedly, and in an absent-minded, half-disgusted way he glanced sideways at it.

''“Man. Elec. 5s, 106⅛,”'' he read on the tape.