Something tolled like a bell in him and never stopped for a moment: six weeks! six weeks! six weeks! all his waking movements went to that intolerable rhythm; he was like a man under a gallows, with a reprieve coming to him, at the mercy of all the elements. It was observed at the bank that he worked harder and longer and much alone: they said the American blood was coming out at last, and smiled at each other.
"Only mind you don't engage us in speculations, old man," said one of his colleagues jocosely, "'safe and sound,' you know! Look at the States—a pretty mess that!"
Weldon turned on him in a fury of anger.
"Speculation! speculation!" he cried harshly, "you know that I hate it like hell!"
They were genuinely anxious about him.
One morning he found his wife in his dressing-room, white-faced over something in her hand.
"Philip! Philip!" she whispered and clung to him.
He put the shining little steel-eyed thing behind him.
"My dear, don't be foolish," he said quietly, "if I have my reasons for wishing a certain sort of protection for a few days, will you make me regret my sparing you?"
"You—you mean the bank?" she gasped.