THE mere accumulating of money does not call for a high, order of intelligence. A stealthy craft is more valuable in that business than the intellect of a Shakespeare. The low cunning of a fox is often successful where the brave strength of a lion fails. Of course there are estimable men who accumulate a fortune through manufactory, discovery, or invention: men who are benefactors to their fellow creatures, and to whom money comes through the fruition of their endeavors to enrich the world rather than themselves. But a Stock Exchange speculator like Schwartzbrod, equipped with the sneaking slyness of an avaricious but ignorant peasant, becomes a mere predatory beast, producing nothing; fattening on the woes and losses of others; stealthy and cruel as the man-eating tiger. It is probable that as civilization advances such a vampire will be secluded from his fellows as the leper is in Eastern lands.

Since his first disastrous encounter with Lord Stranleigh, Schwartzbrod had been animated by a vicious hatred of this seemingly happy-go-lucky young man, whose attention appeared to be concentrated mainly on dress, but as they met again and again, this rancor became tinctured with a slowly rising fear, not of the urbane nobleman’s intellect, but of his amazing good luck, for nothing could have persuaded Schwartzbrod that Stranleigh possessed intellect of any kind. He regarded this junior financier merely as a polite but brainless fop. To one as rich as Schwartzbrod, the writing of a check to fulfill his promises to Captain Simmons and Frowningshield should have been scarcely more important than the tossing of a penny to a beggar by an ordinary man. But Schwartzbrod brooded over it, grit his teeth, and swore vengeance. Now, vindictiveness is a quality which does not pay. In our modern strenuous life the man who wastes thought on revenge runs a risk of falling behind in the procession, but in a time of crisis such deflection of thought upon trivialities, when all senses should be on the alert to prepare for the coming storm, may be fatal. Schwartzbrod was like a man in an open boat on the sea, with too much canvas spread, who, instead of casting his weather eye around the horizon, and shortening sail, was fuming because some one had spilled a cupful of water at the bottom of the boat, pondering over the method of mopping it up, and flinging the soaked rag in the face of him who had upset the cup. A financial typhoon was approaching which would unroof many a house in England and America before it had run its course. Shrewd navigators on the treacherous waters of finance were preparing to scud under bare poles until the clouds rolled by.

It may be admitted at once that Lord Stranleigh no more suspected what was coming than did Schwartzbrod himself, for, as his lordship frequently confessed, he did not understand these things. He had, without browbeating or recrimination, eliminated all chance of Schwartzbrod’s further interference with his mine. Schwartzbrod knew that Lord Stranleigh was possessed of every fact in the case, and these facts, if brought forward in a court of law, might very well sequester the city financier in a prison for the rest of his life, and Stranleigh, quite correctly, counted on this fear restraining Schwartzbrod’s hand.

The big steamer Wychwood passed unmolested from southern to northern seas and back again, and Mackeller’s industrious smelters had tumbled down into the safe deposit some two thousand tons of solid gold.

It was when city men began to return from their summer holidays that a slight whisper floated round the halls of Mammon which sent a shiver up and down the backs of shrewd people here and there. The whisper was to the effect that the Bank of England was in trouble. On three separate occasions within as many weeks, the bank rate had been raised, and now stood at so high a figure that it threatened to check enterprise and speculation during the approaching autumn, when everyone had hoped business would mend in the city. Cautious bankers began calling in their loans, which is a bank’s method of shortening sail. Ambitious projects were being abandoned here and there through fear of shortness of money. Companies whose promoters looked forward to a successful flotation before Christmas, were held over. Affairs in the city were stagnant, and weather-wise people feared worse was to come. About the beginning of October a sinister rumor went abroad, founded on a highly sensational article in a New York yellow journal. This rumor, on account of its origin, was discredited at first, but presently the world came to learn that there was too good a foundation for it. The New York paper said that as soon as the financial amateurs of the British Parliament had placed on the statute books an Act commanding the Bank of England by the first of January to maintain its gold reserve at a hundred million of pounds, a powerful syndicate of financial experts had been formed in Wall Street for the cornering of gold. Wheat had often been cornered, to the great benefit of some one individual either in New York or Chicago, and to the universal loss of a hungry world, but no one had hitherto attempted to corner gold. Wheat could not be produced at will. Once the sowing was done, the mathematicians could estimate very accurately, given a full crop, the maximum number of bushels of wheat likely to be placed on the market the coming autumn, and to this amount no man could add, because the production of wheat depended on the slow revolution of the seasons. With gold it was different: gold could be produced summer and winter, night and day, therefore no individual, be he as rich as Midas, and no syndicate, however powerful, had heretofore dared to attempt the cornering of gold. Wheat was consumed year by year, but gold was practically everlasting, preserved in the shape of ornaments, bullion, plate, and what not. Old coinage, minted centuries before the birth of Christ, was still in existence, and although a few grains of wheat grown in the time of the Pharaohs rested in the palms of certain mummies, the great bulk of year before last’s wheat was already ground and baked and eaten. It would seem, then, that the boldest financial coup ever attempted had been successfully accomplished by the men of Wall Street. This, however, the New York paper pointed out, was not the case. Tremendous as might be the consequences of the corner, there was, after all, little risk to the operators. Gold, unlike wheat, was a staple commodity. Wheat rose and fell in price. Gold practically did not. These men had paid no exorbitant rates for gold, but merely kept silent, and through the help of their agents all over the world, they either secured actual possession of the available metal, or had obtained an option on it, which did not expire until June, while the Bank of England was compelled by the new law to acquire possession of at least a hundred million pounds sterling of gold on January the first. Even if the corner failed, this would entail no loss to the monopolists, because they possessed the actual metal for which everything is sold. No sensational fall in the price of gold could take place, as would have been inevitable in the case of wheat should the corner fail, while as a result of the hold-up, if the bank was forced to come to their terms, the profit to be divided would be enormous. It was also stated that the Wall Street men had secured bank notes and orders for gold upon the Bank of England which they would present at a critical moment, demanding the metal, thus facing this venerable institution with the drastic alternative of accepting their terms, or suspending payment. The Times in a leading article, intended to soothe the public mind, attempted to show that the proposed cornering of gold was impossible; that millions upon millions of hoarded gold would be brought out at the proper moment if enough were offered for it; that these millions were in the possession of people of whom Wall Street knew nothing and had no means of getting into touch with.

This article had some effect in staying the panic, or at least in postponing it. Those responsible for the management of the Bank of England kept silent, as is their usual course, and for a week it seemed, so great was the confidence of Englishmen in their most important financial institution, that nothing disastrous was about to happen. Then stocks of all kinds began to come down with a run. One important house failed, then another, and another, and another, and shrewd men realized that both England and America were face to face with the greatest financial disaster of modern times. It seemed that the punishment fitted the crime, because of the fact that in America, which originated the crisis, the panic was much more severe than in England, and throughout all the United States, especially in the West, there was a simultaneous denunciation of Wall Street, to which Wall Street, accustomed to popular ebullition, paid little attention.

In England meetings were held calling on the Government to rescind their bill, and give the bank more time, but, as was pointed out, the bank had not asked for time, and although the governor and directors were known to have been bitterly opposed to the bill, the Government could scarcely with dignity offer relief where relief had not been sought.

Lord Stranleigh sat at ease in one of the comfortable leather-covered armchairs which helped to mitigate the austerities of life in the smoking room of the Camperdown Club. His attitude was one of meditation. The right leg was thrown over the left; his finger tips met together, and those rather fine, honest eyes of his were staring through the thin film of smoke, and apparently seeing nothing. One of the men who had successfully borrowed money from him the day before, and whose salutation Lord Stranleigh ignored, not on account of the borrowed money, but simply because he had not seen the borrower, remarked to some friends that Stranleigh thought he was thinking, which caused a laugh, as these people did not know that the same remark had been made many years before, and were also under the delusion that Stranleigh was incapable of thought.

The Camperdown Club, as everyone knows, is more celebrated as a center of sport than as a resort of business men, yet it has two or three of the latter on its very select list of members. One of these entered, paused at the door, and looked about him for a moment as if wishing to find a chair alone, or searching for some friend whom he expected to meet. This was Alexander Corbitt, manager of Selwyn’s Bank, a smooth-faced, harsh-featured man, under whose direction this bank, although a private institution, stood almost as high in public estimation as the Bank of England itself. As Corbitt stood there, the dreamy nature of Lord Stranleigh’s gaze changed into something almost approaching alertness.

“Corbitt,” he said, “here’s a chair waiting for you.”

The banker, without hesitation, strode forward, and sat down. There was a certain definite directness about each movement of his body which contrasted strikingly with the indifferent, indolent air assumed by most of the members; a decisive man of iron nerve, even one who knew little of him might have summed him up.

“What will you imbibe?” asked Stranleigh.

“Nothing, thank you. I just dropped in at the club for a bite of dinner, and having a few moments to spare, will now indulge in one cigar; then I must return to the bank.”

“What, at this hour of the evening? I thought banks closed at four o’clock, or is it three?”

“I expect to be there all night,” said Corbitt, shortly, as he held a match to his cigar.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask them.”

“You know I am as ignorant as a child of all matters pertaining to finance, high and low?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“What’s all this fuss about, Corbitt?”

“What fuss?”

“Why, the accounts I read in the evening papers, and the morning papers, too, for that matter. They say there’s a panic in the city. Is there?”

The banker laughed a little; a low, harsh, mirthless laugh.

“Yes, there’s a panic,” he said. “You are not nipped in it, I hope. I was told you were dabbling in the city a while ago. Is that true?”

“Oh, merely a small flutter, Corbitt, on behalf of some friends of mine.”

“Have you been speculating lately?”

“Oh, no. I possess neither the brains nor knowledge requisite for success in the city.”

“Brains and knowledge are at a discount just now. What is needed is cash. The biggest fool with ready cash can do more at this moment than the wisest man with a world of knowledge.”

“Then I’d better jump into the turmoil,” said Stranleigh, smiling.

“Take my advice, and keep out of it. There are rocks ahead. I see by to-night’s papers that Conrad Schwartzbrod has gone under, and has carried down with him six or seven men who are considered the most acute financiers in the city. In ordinary times their standing might be supposed unimpeachable.”

“Schwartzbrod bankrupt! Then it must be a fraudulent bankruptcy, surely?”

“No, it isn’t. Everything has been swept away. He’s had no time to hedge, or you may depend upon it he would have done so.”

“Corbitt, what’s the cause of the whole thing? Can’t a man of your powerful intellect make it plain as A B C to an infant of my caliber?”

“The cause is simple enough. It is the attempt to do the right thing in the wrong way. The cause is the Bank of England’s Gold Reserve Act, passed last May, and coming into force on the first of January next year. This Act makes it obligatory on the Bank of England to hold a reserve of a hundred millions in gold, where formerly it has only held, say, thirty millions. Do you understand so far?”

“Yes, Corbitt, I do. In fact, I remember last May picking up by wireless telegraphy part of the speech of the Chancellor of the Exchequer on this very bill, but I didn’t understand it then, and don’t now.”

“Very well, the object which the Act sought to attain is one I have advocated for ten years past, but the way of accomplishing it is another instance of the conceited folly of a democracy meddling in a science that demands years of training and minds of a certain caliber. A democracy thinks that the right way to do a thing is the method adopted in bringing down the walls of Jericho. They beat drums and blow trumpets, and march round and round. Now, the exasperating feature of this case is that the Chancellor of the Exchequer knew at the time the folly of his own action, although, of course, he did not perceive the tremendous disaster it was going to bring upon not only his own country, but practically all the solvent nations of the world. He should have withstood the pressure of his unreasonable and ignorant followers. He should have arranged an interview with the managers of the Bank of England; should have told them that a bill of this kind was inevitable if they did not themselves put their house in order. He should have arranged with them quietly, without any beating of tom-toms, and blowing of horns, for the bank slowly to accumulate the needed reserve. Then he should have got up in his place in Parliament, and announced that the Bank of England already held the amount in gold which all thoughtful financiers believed to be necessary if we are to get rid of this eternally fluctuating bank rate.

“Of course, the Bank of England itself is also to blame; it being for all practical purposes a branch of the Government. It should have requested an interview, and come to some understanding before the bill passed into law. I expected that the lords would throw it out, and perhaps they thought the same. However, it passed both houses, received royal assent, and then the mischief was done. These very clever Wall Street men at once saw the possibilities of the situation, as they do with all amateur legislation. The bank remained silent and solemn; has given no word to this day, and then, at too late an hour, showed its distress by raising its bank rate again and again and again, hoping that would prove a magnet to attract gold, whereas it was merely hoisting a signal of distress, and acquainting the whole world with the fact it is drifting on a lee shore.”

“Do you mean to say, Corbitt, that there’s a chance of the Bank of England stopping payment?”

“No, I do not go so far as that. Here we come to the comic element of the tragedy, which shows the loose folly with which these Parliamentary bills are drawn. There is no penalty attached to the Act; it merely orders the bank to provide such a reserve by such a date. But if the bank doesn’t do it, there can be neither a fine inflicted, nor can the governor be put into prison for contumely. If I were governor of the Bank of England, I would snap my fingers at Parliament, at the Act, and at the gold-cornering syndicate. I should say that as soon as was convenient to me I would accumulate this reserve of a hundred million, but that such action was impossible in the time given, therefore I should make no attempt to comply with the Act at the present moment.”

“What would be the result of such a statement on the part of the governor?”

“I don’t know. It would probably have a quieting result; or it might further accentuate the panic. Of course, when the governor began to perceive that it was going to be difficult to get the gold, he should have approached Parliament while it was in session, and got a relief bill, postponing the date, say for another year, but, as I have, said, he stood on his dignity; the Government stands on its dignity, and between the two of them they bring unnecessary ruin and disaster upon the country.”

“Isn’t it possible the bank will get the seventy extra millions by the first of January?”

“I see no possibility of it, unless they are prepared to pay two hundred millions for the accommodation to the Wall Street syndicate.”

“Has the Wall Street syndicate got the gold? That is, the actual coin?”

“Yes, and showing its confidence, the money is actually in vaults here in London, so the syndicate seems to have no fear that our Government will commandeer the gold as Kruger did before the Transvaal War began. I understand that the syndicate has notified the Bank of England that the price of this metal will rise two hundred thousand pounds each day until the bank accepts their proposals.”

“Corbitt, must the gold held in reserve by the Bank of England be in actual sovereigns, or raw metal?”

“Either one or the other.”

“Suppose on the first of January the governor of the Bank of England were to announce that there are a hundred million pounds worth of gold in his vaults. What would be the effect on the country?”

“Stranleigh, there’s more in that question than perhaps you think. I have never been just absolutely certain that you are as ignorant as you pretend. Most men in the city would tell you that such an announcement might instantly relieve the crisis, but if nothing were said until the first of January, and the announcement made then, I am not sure but it would be almost as disastrous as the former panic. It would be like the sudden releasing of a powerful and compressed spring, and anything sudden and powerful is apt to disarrange machinery. I think the inevitable result would be the instant soaring of stocks to much beyond their actual value. That, then, would bring ruin to many of those that had been spared by the fall of stocks. We should have a very disturbed market until things subsided to their proper level. And now you will have to excuse me, Stranleigh. I must be off.”

The banker threw away the stub of his cigar, and marched out. Lord Stranleigh went over to one of the tables, and wrote several letters. Among them was a request for an interview at an early date sent to the governor of the Bank of England. Another was an order forwarded to Peter Mackeller in Cornwall. A third requested the honor of a meeting with Mr. Conrad Schwartzbrod. Then Stranleigh took the calendar of the dying year, and slowly counted the number of days remaining to its credit.

“I think there will be time enough,” he said to himself, as he completed the count.

Four days after the lesson he had received on the crisis Lord Stranleigh kept the first appointment he had made by meeting Schwartzbrod in the little business office of the town house. The young man was shocked at the appearance of the aged financier, and, much as he disliked him, could not but feel sorry for him. He seemed almost ten years older than when last they met. His face was haggard, drawn, pinched; his shoulders stooping under the increased burden which misfortune had laid upon them. The only unchanged feature was his eyes, and from them gleamed the baleful light of unconquerable hate.

“I received your letter from the club,” Schwartzbrod began. “I have come, you see, I have come. I am not afraid to meet you; you smooth, brainless sneak, you can do me no further harm. You have done your worst, and if you have called me here to triumph over me, I give you that pleasure, and freely acknowledge that you are the cause of............