The Sixty-Thousand-Dollar Face

by Edwin Lefevre

The Sixty-Thousand-Dollar Face

BY EDWIN LEFEVRE

MRS. BUXTON'S face took on an anticipatory frown: she was about to become a business woman. If such a thing as a mercantile dress had existed, she would have donned it ceremoniously; but only the frown was available. She took the broker's letter from the mantelpiece with a sort of solemn nonchalance—conscious of her pose and thrilled by it—to read it for the twenty-second time that week. But there were no witnesses to the visibleness of her financial cogitations, and she permitted, all unconsciously, her eyebrows to relax. She replaced the letter, unread, on the mantelpiece.

She walked with a calm untroubled mind to the east window and looked out into the neighbor's lawn. Her gaze, roaming aimlessly, exhausted the landscape in three sweeps, and she withdrew from the window by degrees. She spied a bit of paper on the floor by the hearth. It was a fragment of the broker's envelope, torn off with so much handling. Absent-mindedly she put it to her mouth. The touch of it awakened her wits, and she looked intelligently at the enlarged photograph of her late husband. It made her think of the letter from her brokers. They were hers now, and his business perplexities had been transferred to her—she assured herself commiseratingly—together with the three hundred shares of Lakeside and Western stock. She put on her business frown and read the letter again:

John D. Mitchell and Co.,
Bankers and Brokers,
ll6 New Street.

Members of N. Y. Stock Exchange.
Cable Address, "Jodmitco, N. Y."

New York, April 23, 1897.

Mrs. Geraldine Buxton, Indianapolis, Ind.:

Dear Madam,—We beg to enclose herewith check for $375, quarterly dividend on 300 shares of Lakeside and Western stock. In this connection we would say that the stock to-day sold at ll5. It now looks as if it would go higher, though we have not much faith in the present movement, which appears to us to be entirely speculative.

We beg to remain,

Yours truly,

John D. Mitchell and Co.

She folded the letter meditatively and returned it to the envelope, nodding her head as though a haunting suspicion had been confirmed. She said aloud: "The stock sold at ll5 to-day. That was Thursday; no, Wednesday." She nodded once more, correctingly. Then she whispered, loudly enough for her to hear her own voice—a new habit grown upon her since her husband had left her for a tickerless world: "Fred always thought a great deal of that Lakeside stock. And now they are speculating! Poor Fred!"

She sighed deeply; it was a circuitous way of pitying herself. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see the enlarged photograph. She rose, and confronting it, repeated, "Poor Fred!" Her memory made it live. As she gazed, it spoke to her, and her soul heard familiar phrases and unforgotten reproaches, until she said aloud to it, with a sort of tender indignation: "I did acknowledge the receipt of it, the very same day I got it!" Her eyes filled with tears and she walked hastily out of the room, to the flower-bed before the porch, where the sunlight made the tears evaporate more quickly.

Frederick Buxton had been a railroad man, well known in the Middle West, where everybody called him "Fred" from his fourth day to his forty-fourth year. He died "Fred" Buxton, superintendent of the Indiana Division of the Pittsburg, Indianapolis, and Chicago Railroad. He left the neat little frame house in Indianapolis, a reputation as a good fellow with an occasional thirst, a lodge life-insurance policy for a thousand dollars, and three hundred shares of Lakeside and Western stock. This stock was held for him in the office of John D. Mitchell and Co., of the New York Stock Exchange, through whom he had speculated for years with varying but never very great success, using it as a margin. He had bought it on a "slump" for $60 a share. After the estate was settled the widow had left the stock in the brokers' office,—her husband had done so, and she would loyally continue. She might, also, lose the certificates by theft, fire, or mice if she kept them at home in the bureau drawer. She often spoke to her friends about her brokers in Wall Street and greatly enjoyed it. But she said nothing about her intuitive confidence in their honesty and her deep conviction that they knew more about her one investment than she did. Out of a kindly feeling for a genial client of theirs, who had been wont to keep them well informed on railroad rate wars in his section, when such information, early, meant dollars in the stock-market, they took charge of the stock and regularly mailed her the dividends. The shares paid five per cent. per annum; on the $1500 thus derived Mrs. Buxton lived, and even saved for her five-year-old Freddie. Often she deprived herself, often unnecessarily, of little luxuries. The discomfort of it comforted her.

At that moment Wall Street was very much interested in Lakeside stock. So was young Beekman Stuyvesant. He was the grandson of Beekman the First, the founder of the greatest railroad dynasty in the country, who, in addition to many millions, had left to his family the Golden Wonder of the Name—otherwise the prestige of success.

Old Beekman Stuyvesant, many years before, when the Street still called him the Pirate, had unexpectedly secured control of the majority of the company's stock, put in a board of directors of his own, and made it a "Stuyvesant road," like the Great Midland, which was a far greater system, and was known as the Stuyvesant Family Cow. The old gentleman had sold out a great deal of his Lakeside stock at a beautiful profit, but the Golden Wonder of the Name kept it a Stuyvesant road. It prospered mightily, in spite of the family's milking, and paid five per cent, dividends on its stock regularly. But it earned more. So Beekman III. conceived the idea of a nice little bull, or upward, movement in the stock. It was playing with loaded dice, he thought, being an insider and having millions and the Golden Wonder. He did not see how he could lose.

"You know," Mrs. Buxton once told a friend, with a deprecating smile at the pride she felt in being a fellow stockholder of theirs, "the Stuyvesants own most of it!" They didn't; but there were many Mrs. Buxtons in the United States. In American finance, as in politics, it is not always the majority who rules.

So Beekman III. began to buy Lakeside stock, and he bought and bought until he had accumulated 30,000 shares. The price rose to 115, as Mr. Mitchell wrote to Mrs. Buxton. To be enabled to sell out his stock at 120, the Stuyvesant brokers pushed the price up to 130 and tried to unload. To lead a horse to water is one thing; to make him drink is ten thousand. To advance the price of a stock by means of the boosting power of the dollars requires no great art. To make the public buy it at the high price requires many arts, some of them black. The devil, the Spaniards say, can do so many clever things not because he is devilishly clever, but because he is devilishly old; and Beekman III. was very young.

So the price was put up to 150, and then the Lakeside stock began to pour on the market. It was too high a price for a five-per-cent. stock, experts thought. To silence their criticism and also to facilitate the unloading a complaisant board of directors raised the dividend to six per cent. per annum. On the glad news, the price rose four points, thanks to sixteen industrious brokers. But nobody else bought. Relatively, Lakeside was dearer at $150 paying six per cent. a year than the same stock at $96 paying five per cent. The third Beekman Stuyvesant had "overstayed" his market. It was a heinous crime in Wall Street—the crime of stupidity.

So the bears, not content with being merely disagreeable, permitted themselves to be logical. They sold more. The only buyer was young Mr. Stuyvesant. If he had not bought, the price would have melted away, and good hard cash with it.

Mrs. Buxton was blissfully unconscious of her own good luck, until John D. Mitchell and Co. sent her a check for $450 for the quarter, explaining why thereafter her income would be $1800 a year instead of $1500. Mrs. Buxton was grateful, not to a foolish young gambler's bad play, but to the brokers. She thanked them effusively for their kindness to the widow of their old friend and client. Her belief in her intuition grew firm. One great man long ago called it a belief in his star.

"He always," she assured them,—she meant her husband,—"thought a great deal of you, and I cannot tell you how glad I am that I left the Lakeside stock in your care. I felt I was doing a wise thing. I was not mistaken. I am very grateful to you. I am sure that he knows what you have done for me and thanks you." She did not know the exigencies of the stock-market. But her intuition made fewer mistakes than many people, Beekman Stuyvesant among others.

The brokers would have written to her a more detailed explanation had not the market in general and Lakeside in particular become extremely interesting. The Young Napoleon was confronted by a serious problem: To allow the price of Lakeside to sink now meant to allow the Stuyvesant fortune to shrink. Even as it was, every day that passed meant an evaporation of gold—thousands of dollars for interest on the enormous sums Beekman III. had been obliged to borrow to carry on his speculation. The public persisted, asininely, in not buying Lakeside stock from Beekman III. A Stuyvesant had blundered; so a family council was held.

The eldest brother, Theophilus, told Beekman that he was a foolish boy. Why must he gamble?

"Aw!" retorted the young man, "I only wanted to make a little turn in the market."

"Yes, but why?" snivelled Theophilus. To make money was a Stuyvesant privilege. To lose it was the other man's duty.

"Well, I did. That's all there is to it. Now, how are we to get out of it?" Beekman was not so foolish, as his use of the plural showed.

"But, Beekie, if you hadn't got in—"

"Never mind, Theophilus," soothingly said their brother-in-law Carnarvon. He had married a great heiress. It had made him sweet-tempered.

"But if he sells now," persisted Theophilus, "somebody may get control of the Lakeside in the open market. It would be lost to the Great Midland, Beekie, don't you see?"

"Then let the Midland buy it," said Beekie. He said this sapiently. He really had spoken to show that he wished to help out the rest of the family by taking an interest in his own affairs. But Theophilus was a genuine Stuyvesant.

"That's it," he exclaimed, triumphantly. "I declare you're really very clever." Beekman nodded. He agreed with his brother.

"Well," continued Theophilus, "the Midland will take it off your hands and issue its own stock in exchange for Lakeside stock, and—"

But Beekman III. in the last six weeks had had more than his fill of trying to sell stock. He shook his head again, and looked wiser than ever.

"Stock won't do. Make it bonds. What's the matter with a collateral trust bond, secured by Lakeside stock, but guaranteed, principal and interest, by the Great Midland?"

It was Napoleonic; worthy of Beekman I.

"By George!" gasped Carnarvon. The audacity of it took away his breath. He was a Stuyvesant by marriage only. But Theophilus, who naturally thought the gasp was one of admiration, shouted:

"Beekie, why, of course! Send for Colonel Channing."

Colonel Mortimer F. Channing, president of the Great Midland and general factotum of the family, was summoned. He came running. As soon as he could speak, remembering that he had a reputation as a wit to sustain, he delivered himself:

"You said come! Behold me! Ha! ha! ha!"

Theophilus explained the situation and outlined Beekie's master-stroke. He was enthusiastic when he finished.

Colonel Channing forgot himself. He looked serious.

"Well—" he began, dubiously.

"He's got ll0,000 shares," said Theophilus, decisively. "It must be done."

The Colonel smiled genially. "No sooner said than performed. Why, of course. Bless me! you are a chip of the old block. Ha! ha! Beekie, I never would have thought it of you if I hadn't known all the time you had it in you. I always said you were deep—abysmal! Of course it will help the Midland enormously. The Lakeside can earn ten per cent. year in and year out. We can issue three-and-a-half per cent. bonds because the Midland's credit is so good, and give $20,000 in bonds for every $10,000 of stock. The bonds ought to sell readily at 95 or 96."

"That will mean 192 for Lakeside stock," observed Beekman III., nodding his head approvingly, because he had figured on the higher price. Then he permitted himself to smile. So did Theophilus. Both smiles were Stuyvesant smiles—facial chuckles marvellously like the old Pirate's, Channing thought. And so it was done. The Great Midland management, by authority obtained from a complaisant board, began to purchase Lakeside stock, which thereupon rose by leaps and bounds. The shorts became panic-stricken. To save their scalps they parted with a few handfuls of hair. The Street talked of a corner—as though the bears hadn't been already licked to a standstill. Great Midland stock also rose violently. The Street took a long breath and waited, till one morning the newspapers announced in huge headlines that the Lakeside had been absorbed by the Great Midland, which latter company now owned the overwhelming majority of the other's stock, and would pay for it in three-and-a-half per cent. bonds on the basis of two for one. Garrettson and Co. had underwritten the bond issue. It was, of course, an "epoch-making" deal. It is a habit of all such deals. The Lakeside—a most valuable property—was now a possession of the Great Midland, forever safe from the clutches of stock-market marauders. Credit for the gigantic plan was given to Beekman Stuyvesant, who thus was introduced to the American public as a great railroad general and a great financier.

The triumphant march upward to 200 was an epic of the ticker. Not only Wall Street but Europe took a hand in the game. The Golden Wonder worked. Garrettson and Co., official financiers of the Stuyvesant family, published an advertisement which became a classic, and sold millions of the bonds. Railroad men talked of the great coup and began to dream of profitable plagiarism. A few demagogues delivered themselves of candent words against the octopus, and accepted annual passes. A professional litigant or two talked of obtaining perpetual injunctions, but their price was so absurdly cheap that Colonel Channing didn't haggle, but paid spot cash. The bond operation was perfectly legal. Why mar the era of good feeling?

There was no doubt that the Great Midland had done a good stroke. But many far-seeing holders of Lakeside stock had faith in the road, and thought that some day the stock would pay them more than seven per cent. The newspapers took sides on the matter. To convert or not to convert became a burning question. Sorely perplexed spirits over the breadth and length of the land waited for a light from heaven—that is, disinterested advice, undazzled by the Golden Wonder. Among these was Mrs. Buxton. So many of her friends knew about her Lakeside stock that to show they also were conversant with the high finance they bombarded her with newspaper clippings. She worried a great deal, but talked infinitely more, and thus preserved her health. John D. Mitchell himself wrote to her, asking what she wished to do. She answered immediately that what she wished was to know what he thought she ought to do. She appealed to him to tell her exactly, that she might be guided by his advice. She was prepared for the worst, said her postscript. He thereupon explained at great length that if she exchanged she would have a safe investment in good bonds, from which she would have an assured income of $2100 a year as long as she lived. But if the Lakeside ever earned more than it paid at present and the Great Midland permitted the surplus to be distributed, the holders of the stock might get what Wall Street called a "melon-cutting." It might pay, therefore, to hold the stock, though it was speculating and taking a great deal for granted—the abnegation of the Great Midland for one thing. They refused to discuss the ethics of the deal. At all events she still had two months in which to make up her mind.

The widow showed this correspondence to her dearest enemies and a few real friends. It solaced her greatly to martyrize herself in her own estimation before them by having to attend to her own business affairs—as if her cross was not sufficiently heavy without that extra hundredweight. Time was needed for meditation, she said. This was a delicate business. By prolonging the agony she lengthened the pleasure.

There was one particularly hateful woman, Mrs. Frost, who ought to realize that the Stuyvesants were in daily correspondence with Mrs. Buxton. Therefore Mrs. Buxton called on Mrs. Frost when she knew Mrs. Frost was not at home and told Mrs. Frost's daughter how very sorry she was not to have seen Mrs. Frost. Mrs. Frost, on her return, scenting gossip or vaguely hoping for some development which would deliver Mrs. Buxton tied hand and foot to the executioner, returned the call the next day.

Mrs. Buxton was at home. She was enveloped by a halo of business. On her lap were the brokers' type-written letters, a printed copy of the converting plan, and a few sheets of paper black with pencilled figures—Mrs. Buxton's calculations. She placed the documents on the table impressively, and said to Mrs. Frost:

"I'm so glad that you came, Mrs. Frost." Then turning to the papers, she told them with a playful sternness: "There! Don't bother me for the rest of the day. They are business letters," she finished, explanatorily, looking at Mrs. Frost with an expression of humorous distress.

Mrs. Frost vouchsafed her sorrow over not being at home the previous day. Mrs. Buxton assured her that any sorrow was mild compared to Mrs. Buxton's, who had hoped to enjoy a friendly chat. She had been sorely tried all that week. She thereupon told Mrs. Frost all about the affair, and ended:

"You see, Mrs. Frost, if I take the $60,000 in bonds—they are really very good, safe bonds, I assure you—I need never bother about that investment, and I can attend to other matters with a clear mind." She had no other investments, excepting a few hundreds in the savings-bank.

"That's so," agreed Mrs. Frost, politely.

"But," said Mrs. Buxton, with a look of intense astuteness, "there is the surplus! Don't you see? That's the delicate point." She shook her forefinger subtly; then allowed it to point rigidly at her friend's heart, revolverlike.

"Well, I—"

"It's been in all the papers, you know," went on Mrs. Buxton, to strengthen her position. "The eventual disposition of the surplus"—she plagiarized bodily from her brokers,—"that is what makes me hesitate." She sighed. Ah, the burdens of the rich!

"Of course," said Mrs. Frost, noncommittally—"of course that is to be considered. You must always," she went on, with the greater assurance of a philosopher, "look at every question from all sides!" Her manner showed clearly that she herself invariably did so. The judicial is the only attitude that women cannot make convincing, however great their histrionic ability.

"Yes," pursued Mrs. Buxton, naturally unimpressed by the other's wisdom, "but that sur-plus! Why, my dear, I might get a Christmas present some time of hun—of thousands of dollars!" She thrilled herself into unshakable determination never to convert her stock.

"That would be fine," Mrs. Frost assured her, without warmth.

"But again, I might never get it." Mrs. Buxton's soul put on a fur overcoat to keep out the chill doubt that followed in the wake of her own words.

"That," began Mrs. Frost, enthusiastically, "would be fi—frightful!" To offset her words she shook her head with defiant dolefulness.

"Yes," Mrs. Buxton pitied herself, "you can't trust these corporations al- ways."

"You would think they would be honest, since they are so rich," wondered Mrs. Frost, without perceptible indignation.

"Oh, because one is rich it does not follow one is not honest," said Mrs. Buxton, defensively. "The Stuyvesants have always had a good reputation." Caste ties are strong.

"They say those New York families, especially in the four hundred, are no better than they ought to be. There's lots of divorces and—and"—with a wicked little shake of the head—" things we never hear of out here."

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Buxton, with a mysterious smile: she knew but couldn't tell. Being on thin ice, she changed from familiar friend to merely business associate of the Stuyvesants. "But, at any rate, it's the stock I'm worrying about." As a matter of fact, she had already decided to trust to the brokers' judgment, thereby avoiding responsibility, and doing as her intuition prompted.

"I wouldn't let that worry me," said Mrs. Frost.

"No, I don't suppose you would," with delicate emphasis. To check a possible retort she went on quickly: "It isn't the money, of course, but I wish to do the right thing. Fred always thought a great deal of that Lakeside stock. He said it would be very valuable some day, and I feel I ought to keep it for his sake. Though I suppose the bonds are very good too. You know, bonds are the safest thing in the world." She had been a financier these many centuries.

"Yes," assented Mrs. Frost, plutocratically. "I made my husband buy some for the girls for birthday presents; in their own names, so that neither of us can ever touch them." Her daughters would die rich if her advice was followed. That was more certain than death itself.

"That's a wise thing. My boy Freddie won't have to worry. It's been left for me. But really I think I'll have to go to New York and see about this matter," said Mrs. Buxton—who had not thought about such a journey, a postage-stamp being cheaper than a railroad ticket. "You know, Colonel Channing is the president of the Great Midland. Fred often spoke of him"—which was true, since Channing had a national reputation. "They were very friendly"—which she imagined might also be true.

"When do you start?" said Mrs. Frost—incredulously, her hostess thought.

"To-morrow afternoon," replied Mrs. Buxton, defiantly. She was filled with indignation at Mrs. Frost's manner, which had made the journey compulsory.

"Well, I must be going. Good-by, dear. I suppose you want to pack." Perhaps there was no sinister hidden meaning in Mrs. Frost's words, but the possibility of it bought Mrs. Buxton's railroad ticket to New York on the spot.

"Good-by. You're lucky not to have to bother with business matters, I assure you. Good-by. I'll be back next week some time—I may be delayed, you know." The implication was not clear—perhaps the Stuyvesants would insist upon her staying; perhaps the extremely complicated business would take a long time to finish. "Anything you'd like me to get for you? No trouble at all—I'm going to shop until I drop. So sorry you must go. Good-by, my dear."

And so Mrs. Buxton was obliged to go to New York on the next day, and she did. It was wise, she thought. Before the train had left Indianapolis she was certain her husband must have been an old crony of Colonel Channing's. By the time she reached Pittsburg she had decided to call on the Colonel and ask him for advice—which she felt sure he would give her as the widow of his fellow railroad man. She would appeal to his sense of honor. She would speak to him in such a way that he must give her advice. She also succeeded in convincing herself that such had been her intention from the first.

She called at the office of John D. Mitchell and Co., the brokers who had her stock. Perhaps the step she meant to take was not wise, after all, notwithstanding her intuition that told her it was.

Mr. Mitchell seemed glad to see her. He shook hands as though he didn't fear women customers next to death and "welshers." He hoped she was not fatigued and that the firm could be of service to her.

"I thought I'd come myself to see you about my Lakeside stock, Mr. Mitchell," she explained—without a business air, Mrs. Frost being many miles away.

"Why, didn't you receive our letter?"

"Yes; but I made up my mind to come. I was undecided, so I concluded the best thing to do was to see Colonel Channing and ask his advice."

Mitchell remembered that Fred Buxton had been a well-known railroad man, and assumed that Mrs. Buxton knew the Colonel. Responsibility shortens life. He said, with sincere relief:

"By all odds that would be the wisest thing to do. His office is in the Midland Station."

"The cabman will know, I suppose?"

"Oh yes; just tell him to drive you there. I'd very much like to know what he advises you to do, Mrs. Buxton. I wouldn't wait very long if I were you. The stock is now 180. It has been up to 200."

"Has it?" said Mrs. Buxton, with a cordial smile of non-comprehension.

"Yes. You'll let me know what he says, won't you?" Mitchell said this with undisguised earnestness. Mrs. Buxton was flooded with the soul-titillation of pride. She was regarded as a financier, a person of importance! She loved Colonel Channing in advance for talking to her. She loved herself for talking to him. It had been a wise and delightful thing, this trip to New York. That sudden decision to call on the Colonel was a flash of inspiration.

She was driven to the Great Midland offices as through Elysian Fields instead of over the unevenness of Broadway cobblestones and through the clangor and din of the business district. Leaning back in the carriage, she frowned in advance.

When she asked to see Colonel Channing, she was for the moment surprised that the assistant to the Colonel's private secretary asked, very politely, if her business was personal.

"Yes, it is," she said. She added, "Of course."

"Well—" hesitated the assistant. "Madam, wouldn't any one else do? The Colonel's very busy now and—"

"I'm Mrs. Buxton of Indianapolis. I own a lot of Lakeside stock, and I wish to see Colonel Channing about it."

"Oh yes. If you will please go to the treasurer's office, at the other end of the hall, they will be very glad to give you all the information you wish."

"But I wish the Colonel himself to tell me whether I ought to exchange my stock or not. I must have the Colonel's advice in person. I know he will give it to me if you tell him I am here. Just do so, please."

"Very well, madam." The young man disappeared, to reappear a moment later.

"Colonel Channing will see you. Won't you please come this way, madam?" and he ushered her into the genial Colonel's private office.

Colonel Mortimer F. Channing was a tall, well-built man, who carried his years blithely. His hair was white, and his very neatly trimmed Vandyke beard was also of the same clean silvery whiteness. His skin was ruddy and smooth as a baby's, and set off the white of his hair and beard beautifully. His eyes were of a clear sky-blue, very bright and intelligent. The neatness and good taste of his dress were noticeable. He seemed the embodiment of perfect health as of perfect manners. As a rule, his geniality was audible a mile away. To Mrs. Buxton he spoke in a carefully modulated voice—for he cultivated his vocal apparatus as assiduously and painstakingly as he did his personal appearance and his bank account.

"Kindly be seated, madam. How may I be of service to you?"

"I think you knew my husband, Colonel Channing. He was Frederick Buxton, superintendent of the Pittsburg, Indianapolis, and Chicago Railroad."

"Ah, yes," with a polite smile that invited family confidences. He did not remember the name or the man.

"Before he died he bought three hundred shares of Lakeside stock for me, which I hold." Mrs. Buxton felt faintly that she was not businesslike. But she had not time to act a part; so she was what she wished to be, unconsciously. Women would be sensible if they allowed themselves to be natural. The actress in them kills many things.

The Colonel, now feeling safe from contradiction by Mrs. Buxton, said, cordially: "I knew him very well. I was very sorry to hear of his death." His practised face took on a pained look, which he softened to regret when he thought it was time to continue. "I remember I tried to get your address at the time of his death, to convey to you my condolences. I was very sorry."

Mrs. Buxton, feeling easier in her mind, and so full of her own affairs as to fail to be grateful for the Colonel's belated sympathy, went on:

"I couldn't make up my mind as to what to do with my stock, so I have come all the way from Indianapolis to ask your advice. From all I had heard and read about you I felt sure you would give it to me. The stock is all I have in the world, to keep in trust for my little boy. That is why I take the liberty to ask you." Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the Colonel's face. She did not fear responsibility. Her boy's future comforts depended upon her and upon the Colonel's answer.

The Colonel bowed gracefully, and said: "Mrs. Buxton, I feel profoundly touched and honored by your confidence, believe me. And I am glad to be in a position to give you not only friendly and disinterested advice, but sound advice as well."

"I knew you would. I told my friends so," Mrs. Buxton couldn't help saying. At the same time she was made uneasy by his politeness. His smiles did not soothe. What was wrong she did not know, but there was something. Perhaps it was the eyes or the way the smile made his nostrils expand that gave him a foxy look.

"I advise you," he said, very impressively, "by all means to convert your stock into the new three-and-a-half per cent. bonds at once. I have done so with the 10,000 shares I had. Mr. Stuyvesant and his family have done the same with every share they owned. We are in a position to know what is best to do. By all means, madam, convert your stock."

She felt he was thinking of himself and Mr. Stuyvesant and not of Mrs. Geraldine Buxton. His nose, she noticed, was curved like a hawk's bill. She hated hawks. She used to keep bantams as a girl in the country.

"Thank you, Colonel Channing. It is very good of you," said Mrs. Buxton, rising to go. She was disappointed, but she did not show it.

"I beg you not to mention it, Mrs. Buxton. Command me at any time. My advice is at your disposal always, for my old friend Buxton's sake and for your own. By all means convert your stock," and he bowed her out ceremoniously. His voice rang in her ears human, and yet artificial and unconvincing as a phonograph. It was a curious combination, and increased her uneasiness.

Mitchell waited for Mrs. Buxton. He was anxious for the "tip" she would bring back. But he waited for her and it in vain. Mrs. Buxton indulged in some shopping—the stores were fascinating—and supplied her with endless conversational topics, and she had enough to Occupy her mind in New York without bothering about stocks or bankers or returning to brokers' offices. She took the train for Indianapolis the next evening. He did not see her again in nearly two years.

It was a curious coincidence that John D. Mitchell should receive a letter from Mrs. Buxton, eighteen months later, telling him not to send her the check for the usual quarterly dividend, on the very same day that Lakeside stock sold at 380. The bond plan had gone through very successfully. The entire capital stock, with the exception of a few thousands of shares, had been duly converted into three-and-a-half per cent. bonds and reposed safely in the Great Midland treasury. The Midland management was extremely anxious to secure absolutely all the outstanding stock. Once in its possession, the Lakeside surplus in cash and securities of other roads, amounting to many millions, would be distributed among the stockholders—that is, literally emptied into the Great Midland's hungry treasury, since there would be but one stockholder. The Midland needed it. For that reason the Midland was trying to buy in the open market the last remaining shares of Lakeside. Their value was exceedingly great for those especial reasons, and the price had thus risen out of proportion to the intrinsic worth.

Mrs. Buxton herself called on Mr. Mitchell a fortnight later.

"I didn't want you to send me the Lakeside check, because I'm going to Europe to-morrow to be gone three months. My boy stays with his grandmother."

"We will have it all ready for you, Mrs. Buxton. Would you prefer it in cash?"

"If it isn't too much trouble."

"Not at all. The stock is now selling at 380."

"Is it?" said Mrs. Buxton, politely, endeavoring to appear interested.

"Yes. The Stuyvesants want it badly, and they are willing to pay for it. It's worth more to them than to-any one else. I really think you would do well to sell it."

"Change it for the bonds?"

"Oh dear no," laughed the broker. "Sell it for cash and buy any bonds you wish—good railroad bonds that will net you four per cent. or a trifle over. If you do that, you can get very nearly $5000 a year on your money."

"I can?" said Mrs. Buxton, starting. "Why, I only get $2100 now."

"Yes, and your money would be just as safe."

"Are you sure of it?" Mrs. Buxton closed her eyes in order not to see the shattering of her joyful dream at Mr. Mitchell's next words. She tried also to close her ears by an effort of the mind. But she heard him say,

"Absolutely sure, Mrs. Buxton."

"Well, then, do it."

"Very well."

"Are you sure, Mr. Mitchell?" She was brave—and a woman.

Mitchell smiled. "Absolutely. Does it seem too good to be true?"

"Yes."

"It isn't, though."

"Are you s— Very well, Mr. Mitchell. I trust you. Go ahead."

"We'll buy good safe bonds for you. By the way, you never came back to tell me not to convert my stock."

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you see Colonel Channing that day you were here, a couple of years ago?"

"Oh yes; I saw him."

"Then he told you not to convert your stock?"

"On the contrary, he told me to convert it by all means. He advised me very strongly to do it."

"And you didn't?"

"No."

"In Heaven's name, will you tell me why you didn't?"

"Well, Mr. Mitchell, I didn't like his face!"

Mitchell laughed uproariously. Mrs. Buxton smiled indecisively—as women smile when they see men laughing over a joke they do not understand.

"You were wiser than the wisest people in the Street, Mrs. Buxton. I congratulate you," and he shook hands warmly.

At a loss to understand why he laughed and now congratulated her, Mrs. Buxton repeated, knowingly, "I didn't like his face!" She was disappointed when he merely smiled at the repetition.

"The stock," he said, "was 180 on the day you saw him. It is 380 to-day. You've made 200 points on 300 shares." Seeing her blank stare, he explained: "You've made $60,000 by not taking the advice of a man whose face you didn't like. I take off my hat to you!"

"He was very polite, too!" said Mrs. Buxton, as if that made her master- stroke of finance all the more praiseworthy.

And so Mrs. Buxton enjoyed her tour of England, Scotland, and Ireland hugely, and returned to Indianapolis a rich woman—the richest in the block, as the block was allowed to learn.

And in Mitchell's office they still talk of Channing's $60,000 face.