He threw open the door.
"Hyatt!" he called; but there was no answer, and he entered.
Hyatt lay on the bed, fully dressed. The handle of a knife protruded from his breast, and T. B., who understood these things, knew that the man had been dead for many hours.
* * * * * * *
Consols were up.
There was no doubt whatever about that fact, and the industrial market was a humming hive of industry.
Breweries, bakeries, and candlestick makeries—their shares bounded joyously as though a spirit, as of early spring, had entered into these inanimate and soulless things.
The mysterious "bears" were buying, buying, buying.
Frantically, recklessly buying.
Whatever coup had been contemplated by the Nine Men had failed, and their agents and brokers were working at fever heat to cover their losses.