Even Barry Conant is growing a bit anxious. The
latest talk is that Reinhart is borrowing hundreds of millions on
Anti-People's, and that his loans are being called in all directions. Do
you know Reinhart is at his place in Virginia and cannot get here before
to-morrow night? If Bob breaks through Anti-People's peg, it will be the
worst crash yet."
"All right, Fred," I answered. "I will go over to Bob's right now. I hate
to do it, but there is no other hope."
I dropped the receiver and started for Bob's office. As I went through his
counting-room one of the clerks said, "They have just broken Anti-People's
to 90 on a bulletin that Tom Reinhart's wife and only daughter have been
killed in an automobile accident at their place in Virginia. They first
had it that Reinhart himself was killed. That has been corrected, although
the latest word is that he is prostrated."
I rapped on Bob's private-office door. I felt the coming struggle as I
heard his hoarse bellow, "Come in." He stood at the ticker, with the tape
in one hand, while with the other he held the telephone receiver to his
ear. My God, what a picture for a stage! His magnificent form was erect,
his feet were as firmly planted as if he were made of bronze, his
shoulders thrown back as if he were withstanding the rush of the Stock
Exchange hordes, his eyes afire with a sullen, smouldering blaze, his jaw
was set in a way that brought into terrible relief the new, hard lines of
desperation that had recently come into his face.
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