"There is a mystery of mysteries, my boy," sadly said Atwater, "in the strange turn of Fortune's wheel which throws the millions into Francine Delacroix's pretty white hands.
"Rouse yourself! We must think, act, and avenge our friend! It looks as if the finger of fate plaits the noose for Ferris' neck.
For he did know all; he hated and betrayed Clayton, and, I believe that he killed him." "Yes; or had him killed, to clear the way to Alice Worthington's side," exclaimed Witherspoon.

"I see it all, now! Old Hugh intended to marry this noble girl to our dead friend!" But Jack Witherspoon only bowed his head and burst into bitter tears.

"Too late; too late!" he sobbed.

The golden fortune seemed stained with his dead friend's blood.
When the morning brought once more the refluent crowds to the streets of New York, a thousand financial agencies over the world were now eagerly watching for some trace of the fortune stolen from the murdered cashier.
Police and detectives, the officers of justice in far cities and foreign lands, were eagerly striving to gain the additional reward of twenty-five thousand dollars offered by the Fidelity Company, at Alice Worthington's order, for the detection of the secret murderers.
But to Witherspoon and Atwater the night had been one long vigil of earnest conference.
Wearied out at last, Atwater decided the future policy of the two friends.

"Let Stillwell have his head, Jack," gravely advised the doctor.