Jadwin stood there in the centre of the others, hatless, his face pale, his eyes congested with blood. Gretry fronted him, one hand upon his arm. In the remainder of the group Landry recognised the senior clerk of the office, one of the heads of a great banking house, and a couple of other men—confidential agents, who had helped to manipulate the great corner.
"But you can't," Gretry was exclaiming. "You can't; don't you see we can't meet our margin calls? It's the end of the game. You've got no more money."
"It's a lie!" Never so long as he lived did Landry forget the voice in which Jadwin cried the words: "It's a lie! Keep on buying, I tell you. Take all they'll offer. I tell you we'll touch the two dollar mark before noon."
"Not another order goes up to that floor," retorted Gretry. "Why, J., ask any of these gentlemen here. They'll tell you."
"It's useless, Mr. Jadwin," said the banker, quietly. "You were practically beaten two days ago."
"Mr. Jadwin," pleaded the senior clerk, "for God's sake listen to reason. Our firm—"
But Jadwin was beyond all appeal. He threw off Gretry's hand.
"Your firm, your firm—you've been cowards from the start. I know you, I know you. You have sold me out. Crookes has bought you. Get out of my way!" he shouted. "Get out of my way! Do you hear? I'll play my hand alone from now on."
"J., old man—why—see here, man," Gretry implored, still holding him by the arm; "here, where are you going?"
Jadwin's voice rang like a trumpet call: