"He might die," he resumed, holding her glance as he went on, "for everything must be considered. Disgrace wouldn't kill him, but his liver, or,——" he jerked his thumb over his shoulder,—"there might be violence—conspiracies. There have been rumours that the trust company depositors are wild, especially the poor ones—socialists, we'll say. So, he might die—be killed. Who knows?"
Flomerfelt rose and looked down upon her long and earnestly.
"But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mrs. Peter V. Good-night, my dear lady!" And bowing unusually low to her, he left the room.
VI
It was three o'clock in the morning when Eliot Beekman reached his club in Forty-fourth Street.
"There's a telegram for you, Mr. Beekman," called out a sleepy employé, from the office. "It was left here by your clerk to-night."
In his room Beekman switched on the light and read:
Eliot Beekman, Esq.,
32 Nassau St., N. Y.