Struck in the dark, Mr.Bayard stood at the ticker and watched his fortune of eight millions bleed away; when he dropped the tape he was two millions worse than bankrupt.

It was that case-hardening experience which had worked the callous metamorphosis.
"It has taught me caution," was all he said as the quotations chattered off the loss of his last dollar.
From that hour of night and wormwood, Mr.Bayard was another individual.
He gave men his acquaintance, but not his faith; he listened and never believed; he had allies, not friends, and the limits of his confidence in a man were the limits of that man's interest.
And yet in this arctic hardness there remained one generous spot.

There was one name to retain a sweetness and a perfume for Mr.Bayard that one finds in flowers, and the perishing years had not withered it on the hillsides of his regard.

When Mr.Bayard went down on that day of storm and the dark waters of defeat and bankruptcy closed above him, there had been stretched one hand to save.

Dudley Storms was hardly known to Mr.
Bayard, for the former was of your silent, retiring men whom no one discovers until the time of need.