But what if she should not die? What if this nameless languor, this
mysterious atrophy, taken vigorously in hand by Dr. Jedd, should be
vanquished, and the girl should live?
What indeed? A sharp spasm contracted the stockbroker's hard cold face as
he pictured to himself the result of failure.
He saw the crowd of busy faces in the House, and heard the low hum of
many voices, and the dull sound of the big half-glass doors swinging to
and fro, and the constant tread of hurrying feet. He heard the buzz of
voices and the tramp of feet stop as suddenly as if that busy tide of
human life had been arrested by an enchanter's wand. The enchanter is no
other than the head-waiter of the Stock Exchange, who takes his position
by a stand in the midst of that great meeting-place, and removes his hat.
After that sudden silence comes a faint sound of anxious whisperings; and
then again a second silence, still more profound, prevails in that
assembly. Three times, with wooden hammer sounding dull against the
woodwork of his stand, the waiter raps his awful rap. To some it is the
call of doom. The commercial Nemesis hides her awful countenance. Slow
and solemn sound those three deliberate strokes of the wooden hammer. You
can hear the stertorous breathing of an apoplectic stockbroker, the short
panting respiration of some eager speculator--the rest is silence. And
then the voice of the waiter--proxy for the commercial Nemesis--calmly
enunciates the dread decree.
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