"But where is all the money we made yesterday?" came from Hill, in strident voice. "I want it, and I want it now!"
And he did want it more than he wanted good name, fame, wife, home, life, health, or God even!
"We made no money out of Rockhaven," answered Simmons, too disgusted even to be polite; "and I told you once, I have squared my account with Weston and paid him all I owe him. If that is not enough, I'll sing it to you."
And Hill, too agonized to feel an insult even, turned away. Back to the office he ran and read the long account of how Rockhaven had gone up like a rocket and down like a stick. He also read how Simmons had, at the critical moment, been worsted by Page, and even a description of Jess Hutton, who was present to see the fiasco. For Page, not satisfied with his triumph, had called up a reporter, and it is small wonder that Simmons was thoroughly incensed. There was sarcastic reference to him in the article: Weston was ridiculed, and even Hill did not escape, for this sacrilegious scribe had suggested that he could cool his rage at being baffled by fanning himself with his own ears. It was a malicious thrust, for the one feature about himself that Hill was ashamed of was his enormous ears.
In the midst of this added agony, in walked a clerk from their bank to inform him the account of Weston & Hill was overdrawn ten thousand dollars, and to make it good inside an hour or legal proceedings would follow.
Then Hill, with a groan, staggered to their safe and opened the till where securities were kept.
It was empty!
Then ruined, robbed, insulted, and in utter despair, he who in all his long life of grasping greed never had had one kindly thought for others, or of their needs, locked himself in his private office.
And when, an hour later, an officer knocked upon the door, demanding admittance in the name of the law, a pistol's report was the only answer.
And Carlos B. Hill, a cowardly sneak in life, died a coward's death.