"Bruce," I said dully, "do you realize what we're spending in cabs?"
Bruce shook his head with an air of utter weariness.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I've got six million somewhere."
Half an hour earlier I should have laughed. As it was I only stared at him stupidly.
"Yes," I said. "I suppose you have."
Then, in a sort of mechanical way, I opened the paper.
For a moment I gazed at it like a man in a trance.
"What's the matter?" asked Bruce.
I was past speaking. I could only point with a trembling finger to the three huge headlines which seemed to dance mockingly across the page:
"SUICIDE OF JOHN P. FOX.
RUINED RUBBER KING BLOWS OUT HIS BRAINS.
PAUPER FOR THE PAST SIX WEEKS."