He went home, repeating to himself what she had asserted, resisting a wild desire to return to the Lindaburys' and forget there the disorder in his soul; and, though he rebelled scornfully against her confident assertion, the incessant repetition of it did leave an impression.
As he passed the great marble façade of the Atlantic Trust, an unusual sight made him bend out of the window. In the chill gray of the coming dawn, a thin line of depositors was waiting, some standing, others huddled on campstools. At the sight the seriousness of life smote him, and he returned home, the tremulous turns of the human gamble he had played feverishly blended and confused with the dark realities of the rising tragedy of speculation.
CHAPTER X
When, the next morning, Beecher struggled out of a profound stupor, it was to be awakened by the sounds of Bo Lynch at the telephone. He rolled out of bed after a startled gaze at his watch, recalling in a flash the incidents of the night before. As he emerged he heard the final phrase, and the click of the released receiver:
"Sell at once—throw them over."
Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in the other, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly:
"Morning."
"How late did you stay?" asked Beecher.
"Oh, we breakfasted together," said Lynch, with a wry smile; "charming little repast. But I picked up enough to pay for my winter's stabling."
Beecher glanced at the clock, which was approaching the hour.