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But in the morning, something he read in the paper concerning a vast enterprise, involving the control of the new radium mines in Southern California, startled him into trying to recollect what he had heard of Yo Espero and the Cascade Development and Securities Company. Tainting its title the sinister name of Moebus seemed to reoccur persistently in his confused imagination.
Duane's lips were dry with fear; he swallowed, controlled the rising anger that began to twitch at his throat, and went on in a low, quiet voice: "Is this man Moebus connected with any of these transactions in which you and and my father are interested?" "Yes." "Is Klawber?" "Max Moebus, Emanuel Klawber, James Skelton, and Amos Flack are interested. Is that what you want to know?"
His father felt the effort his son was making; looked up wearily, strove to smile, to relight his cigar; which Duane did for him, saying: "As long as you are not mixed up in that Klawber, Skelton, Moebus crowd, I'm not inclined to worry. It seems, as of course you know, that Dysart's brokers failed to-day." "So I heard," said his father steadily. He straightened himself in his chair. "I am sorry.
It mattered nothing to him that the afternoon papers reported the arrest of James Skelton, or that Max Moebus had inadvertently, and no doubt in a moment of intense abstraction, taken a steamer for Europe and the books of the Shoshone Bank. These matters, now seemed a great way off too unreal to be of personal moment. He was feeling sick; that occupied his mind.
Innocent and guilty alike are going to suffer; I never in all my life consciously did a crooked thing in business; and yet I say to you now that these people are bent on my destruction; that they mean to force us to close the doors of the Algonquin; that they are planning the ruin of every corporation, every company, every bank, every enterprise with which I am connected, merely because they have decreed the financial death of Moebus and Klawber!"
"That's Max Moebus," observed a train hand respectfully, as Duane passed close to him; "I guess there's more billions into that there private car than old Pip's crowd can dig out of their pants pockets on pay day." A little, dry-faced, chin-whiskered man with a loose pot-belly and thin legs came waddling along, followed by two red-capped negroes with his luggage.
Oh, yes, James Skelton and Emanuel Klawber with his thirty millions and his string of banks and trusts and mines; and that plunger, Max Moebus, and old Amos Flack Flack the hack stalking-horse of every bull-market, who laid down on his own brokers and has done everybody's dirty work ever since.
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