They passed through the hallway to the porte cochère on the opposite side of the house. Thatcher was just descending from the car.
"Hello!" he greeted Edith, who was ahead. "Where's Marian?"
"Up-stairs. What brings you home at this time of day?"
"Don't disturb her yet," he exclaimed, disregarding her question. "I want a word with Cosden first. You'll excuse us?"
Locking his arm through Cosden's Thatcher led him back onto the piazza which the two had just left.
"What's wrong?" Cosden asked. "Market gone to pieces?"
"It's hell,—nothing less," Thatcher answered, speaking with an excitement unnatural to him. "I left New York at four o'clock this morning. I've come to you, Cosden, as a last resort. We've fought each other on every deal we've ever been in, so you understand how hard I'm pushed. If you're fixed so that you can put me next to a bunch of cold, hard cash, you can have anything I control at a fraction of its value. This is your chance to make your everlasting fortune if you can command the cash."
"You don't mean it!" Cosden exclaimed. "Are you caught as bad as that?"
"Worse than that. Securities are dropping out of sight. Germany will declare war inside of a week, and there is danger of other big nations becoming involved. If they do, God only knows what will happen to the money system of the world; it is strained already to the breaking-point. You may thank Heaven, Cosden, that your investments are not in speculative stocks! But we're losing time. I must get back by three o'clock. Is there any chance of pulling off my forlorn hope? If not, we'll close our doors to-morrow."
"Do you actually mean that, Thatcher?"