A minute passed--another.

Carling's pen travelled haltingly across the paper then, with a queer, low cry as he signed his name, he dropped the pen from his fingers, and, rising unsteadily from his chair, stumbled away from the desk toward a couch across the room.
An instant Jimmie Dale watched the other, then he picked up the sheet of paper.

It was a miserable document, miserably scrawled: "I guess it's all up.

I guess I knew it would be some day.

Moyne hadn't anything to do with it.