OUR BANKING BUBBLE BURSTS
One day, however, something happened that filled me with honest indignation at Carrie Morse and her schemes. A poor, bent old widow called to see me—a woman whose threadbare clothes and rough hands plainly showed how she had to struggle to make a living. Tied up in her handkerchief she had $500 which she had just drawn from a savings bank.
"It's all I have in the world," she said with tears in her eyes, "and I've had to scrimp and slave for every cent of it. I saw Mrs. Morse's advertisements and I've been to see her this morning. She says if I'll give my money to her she can double it for me in two years. Would I better do it? I'm only a poor old woman and I want you to give me your advice?"
As diplomatically as I could I explained to her that, while Mrs. Morse's scheme was an excellent one, it would be much wiser for a woman in her circumstances to keep her money in the savings bank, and I made her promise that she would put it back there at once. Then I put on my hat and coat and hurried over to the bank to see Carrie Morse.
As usual Carrie was in the midst of an enthusiastic description of her stocks while a long line of women anxiously awaited their turn with her. I took her by the arm, led her into one of the private offices, and shut the door.
"Carrie Morse, this sort of business has got to stop," I said with all the emphasis I could. "I'm willing to help you swindle women who can afford to lose the money, but I positively will not have any part in taking the bread out of the mouths of poor widows like the one you just sent over to see me. Sooner than do that I'll starve—or go back to robbing banks or picking pockets."
"There, there—don't get excited," she said soothingly. "Perhaps I did make a mistake in encouraging the poor widow. But this is a business where you can't help being deceived sometimes. Often the women who plead poverty the hardest and dress the poorest really have the most money hidden away. I'll give you my word of honor, though, that I won't accept any money from that widow even if she tries to force it on me."
Somewhat mollified at this I started back home to renew my interviews with the prospective investors who came daily in crowds.
For several weeks things went on as before. Then one day I chanced to meet the poor widow who had so excited my sympathies. To my surprise she confessed that she had finally yielded to the lures of Mrs. Morse's advertisements and had given her $500 for some shares in a bogus western oil company.
I was indignant that Carrie should have forgotten her promise in that way, and I set out at once to demand an explanation. As I was approaching the bank my attention was attracted by some unusual excitement just outside the entrance.
Scenting trouble and thinking perhaps it would be just as well if I were not recognized in that vicinity I slipped into a doorway across the street where I could see what was going on without being seen.
Around the doors of the bank surged a crowd of several hundred very excited persons, mostly women. Among them I recognized many of the ladies whom I had urged to invest in Carrie's securities. I also noticed our landlord, the contractor who had altered the building, the man who had supplied the furniture, a collector for the gas company, and numerous other creditors of the bank.
The doors of the bank were closed and the closely drawn shades revealed no sign of life inside. In front of the doors stood three blue-coated policemen vainly trying to keep the pushing crowd back.
What interested me most was two Central Office detectives who mingled with the crowd trying to get some information from the hysterical women. They made slow progress, for the women were too excited to do more than repeat over and over again the sad refrain: "My money's gone!" But the sight of those plain clothes men showed me the wisdom of getting out of the way before they had time to get too deep into the cause of all the trouble.
Quite plainly the bubble had burst. Some investor had become suspicious and the investigation which she or her husband had started had demolished the flimsy structure which Carrie's vivid imagination had reared.
Bitterly I thought of Carrie's treachery to me. Without a word of warning she had fled, leaving me alone and almost penniless to face arrest. By now she was doubtless on her way to Europe or Canada with all the money in which I should rightfully have shared.
There was only one thing for me to do—get away from my Fifth avenue house before any of the women investors recovered enough of their senses to put the police on my trail. Hurriedly throwing a few of my possessions into a trunk I shipped it to my friend Mr. Rowe's hotel and followed there myself on foot.
To Mr. Rowe I poured out the whole story of my troubles and asked his help. He was very willing to do all in his power to aid me.
"It looks bad for you, Sophie," he said. "A detective was here less than fifteen minutes ago inquiring for you and the chances are that he'll be back again before long. But I can easily hide you until night, and then we'll try to find some way of smuggling you to the station. I'll loan you whatever money you need and will ship your trunk to you when you get to Detroit."
Mr. Rowe was right—the detective returned and posted himself at the front door of the hotel. With him came another headquarters man to guard the side entrance. They were evidently convinced that Sophie Lyons was in the hotel or that she would soon return there.