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The girl showed that she had been following him closely when she maintained:

"Still, that's only your point of view. At any rate, it was a venture, and when the panic came—everybody goes under. These people don't create the panic."

Ilingsworth gritted his teeth.

"I haven't finished!" he cried. "Out of all this crowd of Jones, Smith and Robinson, there is always one man who understands the game. He owns seventeen trust companies; he's milked them dry. He's been waiting for a panic; the panic comes. Now he throws up his hands, tells the people he's been a fool with the rest, and shows up worthless stock—waste-paper by the ton that he has bought for just nothing a pound. But he's got all that the people haven't got, and he's salted it away. And that man's name is Peter V. Wilkinson."

Leslie's face paled.

"Mr. Ilingsworth," she cried sharply, "do you really believe all that you've been telling me?"

Ilingsworth stared her wearily in the face.

"The Norahs and the Ludwigs, perhaps, don't mind losing their few dollars," he replied vaguely; "but I want to tell you that when I—when Elinor and I lose fifteen thousand a year—and how many years there are ahead of us—it's killing! Killing! And you ask do I believe all that I've been telling you?" He roused himself to sudden energy. "Believe? Why, heavens and earth, I know, I know...."