Peter Bolton dropped his eyes, trembled as he stood silent for a moment, then seized his papers and walked to the door. As his hand was on the knob, he turned and shook his fist at us.
"I'll smash you yet!" he cried in a harsh voice, his anger getting the better of his fears. "I'll smash you and that scoundrel Kendrick. I'll grind the whole pack of you down into the dirt." And he went out with unexpected nimbleness, and slammed the door behind him.
I looked at my associates with a word of self-congratulation on my tongue. But the shamed and apologetic air with which they studied the documents before them stopped my mouth. It was evident that they needed no one to inform them that they had been gulled by Peter Bolton, and I had the discretion to perceive that the temper of the office would not be improved by discussion of the circumstances. So I took my seat without a word.
The stream of imperiled merchants again trickled through the room, and for an hour we worked rapidly and with exemplary harmony. The self-esteem of Partridge, cut down by the treacherous hand of Peter Bolton, spread and blossomed once more as his skill in estimating the value of securities and the needs of borrowers was put to the test and proved without flaw. The phlegmatic Nelson had shown his discomposure for but a moment, so we were again upon a footing of close confidence.
It was half-past two when Brown, Wharton Kendrick's head clerk, peered in at the door and beckoned to me with a face full of trouble. I made some excuse, and followed him to his office. He closed and locked the door and looked at me in silent dismay.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"We're ruined!" he gasped.
"What's that?" I cried.
"We must close the doors--unless you have three hundred and fifty thousand," he whispered slowly.
He looked at me with the white face and colorless lips of a man in the final stages of nausea. The misfortunes of Wharton Kendrick were taken to heart by at least one man.