Montague had written a reluctant letter to Major Thorne, telling him that he had been unable to interest anyone in his proposition, and that he was not in position to undertake it himself. Then, according to his brother's injunction, he left his money in the bank, and waited. There would be "something doing" soon, said Oliver.  
And as they drove home from the Evanses', Oliver served notice upon him that this event might be expected any day. He was very mysterious about it, and would answer none of his brother's questions—except to say that it had nothing to do with the people they had just visited.
 
"I suppose," Montague remarked, "you have not failed to realize that Evans might play you false."
 
And the other laughed, echoing the words, "Might do it!" Then he went on to tell the tale of the great railroad builder of the West, whose daughter had been married, with elaborate festivities; and some of the young men present, thinking to find him in a sentimental mood, had asked him for his views about the market. He advised them to buy the stock of his road; and they formed a pool and bought, and as fast as they bought, he sold—until the little venture cost the boys a total of seven million and a half!
 
"No, no," Oliver added. "I have never put up a dollar for anything of Evans's, and I never shall.—They are simply a side issue, anyway," he added carelessly.
 
A couple of mornings later, while Montague was at breakfast, his brother called him up and said that he was coming round, and would go down town with him. Montague knew at once that that meant something serious, for he had never before known his brother to be awake so early.
 
They took a cab; and then Oliver explained. The moment had arrived—the time to take the plunge, and come up with a fortune. He could not tell much about it, for it was a matter upon which he stood pledged to absolute secrecy. There were but four people in the country who knew about it. It was the chance of a lifetime—and in four or five hours it would be gone. Three times before it had come to Oliver, and each time he had multiplied his capital several times; that he had not made millions was simply because he did not have enough money. His brother must take his word for this and simply put himself into his hands.
 
"What is it you want me to do?" asked Montague, gravely.
 
"I want you to take every dollar you have, or that you can lay your hands on this morning, and turn it over to me to buy stocks with."
 
"To buy on margin, you mean?"
 
"Of course I mean that," said Oliver. Then, as he saw his brother frown, he added, "Understand me, I have absolutely certain information as to how a certain stock will behave to-day."
 
"The best judges of a stock often make mistakes in such matters," said Montague.
 
"It is not a question of any person's judgment," was the reply. "It is a question of knowledge. The stock is to be MADE to behave so."
 
"But how can you know that the person who intends to make it behave may not be lying to you?"
 
"My information does not come from that person, but from a person who has no such interest—who, on the contrary, is in on the deal with me, and gains only as I gain."
 
"Then, in other words," said Montague, "your information is stolen?"
 
"Everything in Wall Street is stolen," was Oliver's concise reply.
 
There was a long silence, while the cab rolled swiftly on its way. "Well?" Oliver asked at last.
 
"I can imagine," said Montague, "how a man might intend to move a certain stock, and think that he had the power, and yet find that he was mistaken. There are so many forces, so many chances to be considered—it seems to me you must be taking a risk."
 
Oliver laughed. "You talk like a child," was his reply. "Suppose that I were in absolute control of a corporation, and that I chose to run it for purposes of market manipulation, don't you think I might come pretty near knowing what its stock was going to do?"
 
"Yes," said Montague, slowly, "if such a thing as that were conceivable."
 
"If it were conceivable!" laughed his brother. "And now suppose that I had a confidential man—a secretary, we'll say—and I paid him twenty thousand a year, and he saw chances to make a hundred thousand in an hour—don't you think he might conceivably try it?"
 
"Yes," said Montague, "he might. But where do you come in?"
 
"Well, if the man were going to do anything worth while, he'd need capital, would he not? And he'd hardly dare to look for any money in the Street, where a thousand eyes would be watching him. What more natural than to look out for some person who is in Society and has the ear of private parties with plenty of cash?"
 
And Montague sat in deep thought. "I see," he said slowly; "I see!" Then, fixing his eyes upon Oliver, he exclaimed, earnestly, "One thing more!"
 
"Don't ask me any more," protested the other. "I told you I was pledged—"
 
"You must tell me this," said Montague. "Does Bobbie Walling know about it?"
 
"He does not," was the reply. But Montague had known his brother long and intimately, and he could read things in his eyes. He knew that that was a lie. He had solved the mystery at last!
 
Montague knew that he had come to a parting of the ways. He did not like this kind of thing—he had not come to New York to be a stock-gambler. But what a difficult thing it would be to say so; and how unfair it was to be confronted with such an issue, and compelled to decide in a few minutes in a cab!
 
He had put himself in his brother's hands, and now he was under obligations to him, which he could not pay off. Oliver had paid all his expenses; he was doing everything for him. He had made all his difficulties his own, and all in frankness and perfect trust—upon the assumption that his brother would play the game with him. And now, at the critical moment, he was to face about, and say; "I do not like the game. I do not approve of your life!" Such a painful thing it is to have a higher moral code than one's friends!
 
If he refused, he saw that he would have to face a complete break; he could not go on living in the world to which he had been introduced. Fifty thousand had seemed an enormous fee, yet even a week or two had sufficed for it to come to seem inadequate. He would have to have many such fees, if they were to go on living at their present rate; and if Alice were to have a social career, and entertain her friends. And to ask Alice to give up now, and retire, would be even harder than to face his brother here in the cab.
 
Then came the temptation. Life was a battle, and this was the way it was being fought. If he rejected the opportunity, others would seize it; in fact, by refusing, he would be handing it to them. This great man, whoever he might be, who was manipulating stocks for his own convenience—could anyone in his senses reject a chance to wrench from him some part of his spoils? Montague saw the impulse of refusal dying away within him.
 
"Well?" asked his brother, finally.
 
"Oliver," said the other, "don't you think that I ought to know more about it, so that I can judge?"
 
"You could not judge, even if I told you all," said Oliver. "It would take you a long time to become familiar with the circumstances, as I am. You must take my word; I know it is certain and safe."
 
Then suddenly he unbuttoned his coat, and took out some papers, and handed his brother a telegram. It was dated Chicago, and read, "Guest is expected immediately.—HENRY." "That means, 'Buy Transcontinental this morning,'" said Oliver.
 
"I see," said the other. "Then the man is in Chicago?"
 
"No," was the reply. "That is his wife. He wires to her."
 
"—How much money have you?" asked Oliver, after a pause.
 
"I've most of the fifty thousand," the other answered, "and about thirty thousand we brought with us."
 
"How much can you put your hands on?"
 
"Why, I could get all of it; but part of the money is mother's, and I would not touch that."
 
The younger man was about to remonstrate, but Montague stopped him, "I will put up the fifty thousand I have earned," he said. "I dare not risk any more."
 
Oliver shrugged his shoulders. "As you please," he said. "You may never have another such chance in your life."
 
He dropped the subject, or at least he probably tried to. Within a few minutes, however, he was back at it again, with the result that by the time they reached the banking-district, Montague had agreed to draw sixty thousand.
 
They stopped at his bank. "It isn't open yet,—" said Oliver, "but the paying teller will oblige you. Tell him you want it before the Exchange opens."
 
Montague went in and got his money, in six new, crisp, ten-thousand-dollar bills. He buttoned them up in his inmost pocket, wondering a little, incidentally, at the magnificence of the place, and at the swift routine manner in which the clerk took in and paid out such sums as this. Then they drove to Oliver's bank, and he drew a hundred and twenty thousand; and then he paid off the cab, and they strolled down Broadway into Wall Street. It lacked a quarter of an hour of the time of the opening of the Exchange; and a stream of prosperous-looking men were pouring in from all the cars and ferries to their offices.
 
"Where are your brokers?" Montague inquired.
 
"I don't have any brokers—at least not for a matter such as this," said Oliver. And he stopped in front of one of the big buildings. "In there," he said, "are the offices of Hammond and Streeter—second floor to your left. Go there and ask for a member of the firm, and introduce yourself under an assumed name—"
 
"What!" gasped Montague.
 
"Of course, man—you would not dream of giving your own name! What difference will that make?"
 
"I never thought of doing such a thing," said the other.
 
"Well, think of it now."
 
But Montague shook his head. "I would not do that," he said.
 
Oliver shrugged his shoulders. "All right," he said; "tell him you don't care to give your name. They're a little shady—they'll take your money."
 
"Suppose they won't?" asked the other.
 
"Then wait outside for me, and I'll take you somewhere else."
 
"What shall I buy?"
 
"Ten thousand shares of Transcontinental Common at the opening price; and tell them to buy on the scale up, and to raise the stop; also to take your orders to sell over the 'phone. Then wait there until I come for you."
 
Montague set his teeth together and obeyed orders. Inside the door marked Hammond and Streeter a pleasant-faced young man advanced to meet him, and led him to a grey-haired and affable gentleman, Mr. Streeter. And Montague introduced himself as a stranger in town, from the South, and wishing to buy some stock. Mr. Streeter led him into an inner office and seated himself at a desk and drew some papers in front of him. "Your name, please?" he asked.
 
"I don't care to give my name," replied the other. And Mr. Streeter put down his pen.
 
"Not give your name?" he said.
 
"No," said Montague quietly.
 
"Why?"—said Mr. Streeter—"I don't understand—"
 
"I am a stranger in town," said Montague, "and not accustomed to dealing in stocks. I should prefer to remain unknown."
 
The man eyed him sharply. "Where do you come from?" he asked.
 
"From Mississippi," was the reply.
 
"And have you a residence in New York?"
 
"At a hotel," said Montague.
 
"You have to give some name," said the other.
 
"Any will do," said Montague. "John Smith, if you like."
 
"We never do anything like this," said the broker.
 
"We require that our customers be introduced. There are rules of the Exchange—there are rules—"
 
"I am sorry," said Montague; "this would be a cash transaction."
 
"How many shares do you want to buy?"
 
"Ten thousand," was the reply.
 
Mr. Streeter became more serious. "That is a large order," he said.
 
Montague said nothing.
 
"What do you wish to buy?" was the next question.
 
"Transcontinental Common," he replied.
 
"Well," said the other, after another pause-,-"we will try to accommodate you. But you will have to consider it—er—"
 
"Strictly confidential," said Montague.
 
So Mr. Streeter made out the papers, and Montague, looking them over, discovered that they called for one hundred thousand dollars.
 
"That is a mistake," he said............