Thomas sat on the sofa and stubbed out his nearly burnt-out cigar in the ashtray.
He looked at the angry, fearful, and even somewhat hysterical United States president in front of him.
He finally understood the real reason for Grant's change of heart: it wasn't because of a few threats from the British, but rather stemmed from the extreme exclusivity of the instinct for power.
Grant was scared.
They were afraid that the young man, who was their ally, had the power to overturn the president's desk at any moment.
" Ulysses ".
Thomas' voice was surprisingly calm, devoid of anger, only filled with a sorrowful acceptance of the ways of the world.
"You are a great general, but an extremely bad politician."
Thomas stood up and picked up the ebony cane that was leaning against the armrest.
"The things you just listed—the cotton fields of the South, the railroads of the Midwest, and the warehouses of the West Coast—you see them as a threat to presidential power. You see them as an 'invisible monarchy.'"
Thomas walked up to Grant and slammed the bottom of his cane on the floor.
"But what I see is a United States of America that is becoming incredibly powerful."
Thomas pointed out the window.
"What was the South like before Felix got involved?
A wasteland overgrown with weeds! He poured nearly ten million dollars into it, getting farmers who couldn't even afford to eat to grow cotton again.
Though ruthless, he got the South's economy running again. That's something your cabinet bureaucrats have been talking about for two years and haven't accomplished!"
"And then there's the railroad. Without the efficient logistics of the Metropolitan Trading Company and the power equipment provided by Standard Oil and General Electric, the cost of westward expansion would have been several times higher. Do you think those dirt-poor railroad companies, relying on those tattered greenbacks issued by the Treasury Department, could have laid rails all the way to the Pacific Ocean?"
Thomas stared intently at Grant.
" Ulysses, you have succeeded in punishing us. You even tried to smash a steam engine that is pulling the country forward out of fear."
Grant's face turned bright red.
"Bullshit... I failed in my punishment! I was merely upholding the borders of the Union; power cannot be concentrated in the hands of capitalists. This is my duty under the Constitution!"
"Ha... Stop using the constitution to talk to me."
Thomas let out a sneer.
"Your so-called maintenance of authority is just preparing to create an antitrust law and then break up Argyle's assets. And then what? Let those European syndicates, let Morgan's United Trust Bank take advantage of the situation? Are you prepared to hand over the whole yard to the British just to uproot a big tree in your own backyard!"
Thomas turned and walked toward the study door.
"Alright, Ulysses, I'm here today on Felix's behalf to remind you of something."
Thomas stopped in front of the door, turned around, and his eyes became extremely unfamiliar.
" The Argyle and Clark families are your allies, not your subjects. The reason you can sit in this room drinking whiskey is because two years ago, we used mountains of dollars and political connections to help you break down the doors of Capitol Hill and win over those wavering voters."
Thomas gripped the brass doorknob.
"If you insist on believing the British nonsense, if you insist on feeling that the 'invisible crown' hurts your pride, and even if you actually let Ackerman submit that investigation report to the Supreme Court."
Thomas stared at him and said, word by word.
"I guarantee you won't receive any aid or publicity from any of Argyle's businesses in next year's midterm elections. And those Southern ranchers and East Coast factory owners whose livelihoods are controlled by Felix will tear you to pieces at the polls. Your cabinet won't survive next winter."
Grant took a sudden step forward, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked.
"Fuck you... You're threatening the President of the United States! Thomas! Do you think I wouldn't dare touch you?"
"You can give it a try."
Thomas met Grant's gaze without flinching.
"Let's see if the president's cabinet acts faster, or if Congress and the banks act faster. When you can't even pay the army's salaries, who will listen to your orders?"
The two men stood locked in a tense standoff in front of the study door, the air seeming to freeze into solid ice.
Two years ago, the strongest alliance, which was inseparable and jointly shaped the postwar political landscape, has now developed an irreparable rift due to suspicion and fear of power.
Finally, Thomas opened the door.
"Think it over carefully, Mr. President. The White House cigars are getting harder and harder to smoke."
Thomas didn't look back and strode out of the Oval Office. Grant stood alone in the empty study.
He stared blankly at the pile of scattered internal investigation documents on the coffee table.
Then he slumped onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands.
He did not immediately order Ackerman to continue the investigation.
Because he knew that Thomas's threat was a deadly reality. But the thorn in his heart had already sunk deep and could never be pulled out.
That night.
New York, Empire State Building.
Felix sat behind his desk, looking at the coded telegram that had just come from Washington.
That was a detailed record of the meeting sent by Thomas Clark through Anna.
Felix read the telegram expressionlessly.
He took out a match, lit the telegram, and threw it into the brass wastepaper basket next to him.
The firelight illuminated his face, which showed no emotion whatsoever.
"The Hidden Royal Family?"
Felix watched the papers gradually turn to ashes and muttered to himself.
"If I'm really that scared, then I'll just have to wear this crown more securely."
Felix pressed the megaphone on the table.
" Tom, Stanton."
Felix' voice pierced through the copper pipes and reached the trading department downstairs.
"Prepare the tickets. Notify the carriage caravan and tell Fowler to prepare a special edition."
Felix's tone revealed a ruthless decisiveness that seemed capable of tearing everything apart.
"We can't wait any longer. Let's launch a full-scale run on United Trust Bank ahead of schedule tomorrow."
"I want to see the Old Morgan financial building reduced to ruins before the weekend. I want to show that Washington veteran what a real disaster looks like."
In a secret room on the second basement floor of the Empire State Building, two large oak tables joined together were piled high with bundles of commercial acceptance bills, short-term credit instruments, and promissory notes payable on demand.
Stanton took off his signature dark suit jacket, wearing only a white shirt and vest.
He rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms. In his hand, he held a rubber stamp dipped in red ink, performing the final sorting and stamping of each bundle of tickets.
Hayes leaned against the iron door of the secret room, a half-burnt cigar between his fingers.
"Twelve million dollars worth of waste paper."
Hayes looked at the mountain of receipts.
"The boss actually moved the plan forward. It was originally scheduled for Friday afternoon, but now it's been changed to today. Those British guys on Wall Street didn't even give us a grace period to reconcile the accounts."
Stanton didn't look up, rhythmically slapping the rubber stamp on the paper.
"It's better to start early, Tom. Friday runs are Wall Street's old tricks, and that Englishman Cavendish is definitely on guard against it."
Stanton tossed a bundle of stamped money orders into the open canvas trunk at his feet.
"It's only Wednesday today, their position adjustments haven't been completed yet. That's how they play the time gap."
Hayes walked over and picked up a United Trust Bank draft with a face value of ten thousand US dollars.
"Have you found people to scout ahead? Although the boss told us to just dump the goods, if these fifty people rush in together, the other side can just put up a 'Temporarily Closed' sign, and the panic of the run won't reach the streets."
"I contacted Elias Vance."
Stanton stopped what he was doing and straightened up.
"That guy runs a third-rate underground gambling den on Broad Street. He employs a bunch of thugs who specialize in collecting debts and taking the fall for people. I gave him a $500 tip. His men will split into ten groups and enter 48 Wall Street from different directions."
Stanton picked up the pocket watch on the table and glanced at it.
"It's 10 a.m. now, and Elias's first group should have already entered the United Trust Bank. They're carrying small, loose bills worth a few hundred or a thousand dollars."
Hayes frowned.
"Hey buddy, small receipts? What good are they?"
"Test the water temperature."
Stanton picked up a towel and wiped the red ink off his hands.
"This British bank has only been open for a short time. The facade is very grand, with marble pillars and brass counters. But no one knows how much hard currency is actually in the cash drawers behind the counters."
Stanton walked to the blackboard on the wall, picked up the chalk, and drew a simple floor plan of the bank.
"The people from Elias went to withdraw small-denomination notes, demanding they be exchanged entirely for gold coins. If the bank teller readily gave them the money, it meant their daily reserve funds were sufficient. If the teller tried to refuse, or demanded they accept greenback banknotes and government bond collateral…"
Stanton threw away the chalk.
"That means their underlying cash pool is almost empty. When that happens, I'll rush in with these fifty suitcases full of large-denomination drafts. That will be the fatal blow."
Right now.
48 Wall Street, United Trust Bank lobby.
The hall has a very high dome, with several magnificent crystal chandeliers hanging from it.
The floor is paved with black and white Italian marble.
Six walnut wood counters inlaid with bulletproof glass lined up in a row.
Elias Vance was wearing a slightly worn tweed coat with the collar turned up, obscuring half of his face.
He stood in front of counter number three, holding a stack of United Trust Bank short-term promissory notes in denominations of fifty and one hundred dollars.
Behind the counter, a young cashier wearing black-rimmed glasses was dipping her fingers in water and counting the receipts.
"That's $1,450 in total, sir."
The cashier looked up and gave a professional smile.
"Do you intend to deposit it into our bank's fixed-term account, or do you need to exchange it for Federal Reserve notes?"
"I don't want federal waste paper, buddy."
Elias chewed something and mumbled indistinctly.
"I want gold, you understand? Gold coins, the kind that's in bags."
The cashier's smile froze for a moment.
"But sir, a gold coin of 1,450 dollars is very heavy and unsafe to carry. Federal Reserve notes issued by our bank can be used at any store for their full value."
"I said I want gold."
Elias tapped the brass countertop with his fingers impatiently.
"This is a payable certificate issued by your own bank. It says 'exchangeable for equivalent hard currency' on it. Does United Trust Bank, which has been open for less than a month, not even have this much gold coin to its name?"
Elias spoke loudly, deliberately attracting the attention of several businessmen who were conducting business nearby.
Cold sweat beaded on the cashier's forehead.
He turned his head and glanced at Nathaniel Thorne, who was sitting behind the manager's desk deep in the hall.
Nathaniel is the United Trust Bank The general manager of the New York branch. He is an experienced British banker who was recruited by the Morgan family with a high salary to guard this bridgehead in North America.
Nathaniel noticed the argument at the counter, stood up, and strode over.
"What's wrong, Smith? "
Nathaniel looked at the cashier with a stern gaze.
"This gentleman requests to exchange the entire $1,450 promissory note for gold coins. Mr. Manager, we only have less than $500 in change left in our front desk gold coin reserve box. The large gold bars are in the underground vault."
The cashier lowered her voice to report.
Nathaniel glanced at Elias's thuggish appearance, then at the crumpled promissory notes in his hand.
His keen financial sense immediately detected a hint of danger.
At this point in time, they come with a pile of loose promissory notes and demand to exchange them for pure gold.
This doesn't seem like typical retail investor behavior.
"Give him gold coins, Smith."
Nathaniel gave the order without expression.
"But manager, we don't have enough receptionists..."
"Then let's go to the underground vault and get it. Open a chest of Double Eagle gold coins, and go now!"
Nathaniel's voice rose a few decibels, carrying an air of authority.
The cashier was startled and quickly grabbed the keys and ran towards the iron gate at the back of the lobby.
Nathaniel looked at Elias through the glass.
"Sir, the credit of United Trust Bank is rock solid. Your gold coins will arrive soon; hopefully, this heavy metal won't break your pockets."
Elias grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
"No need for you to worry about that, Englishman. I've brought plenty of sturdy canvas bags."
Ten minutes later, Elias walked out of the bank carrying a heavy cloth bag.
He crossed the road and entered the narrow alley.
Deep in the alley, a black carriage without an insignia was parked.
Elias walked over and knocked on the wooden planks of the carriage. The window opened a crack, revealing Stanton's cold face.
"The test has been conducted, Mr. Stanton."
Elias placed the bag on the carriage footboard.
"They didn't have any gold at the front desk; the cashier went to the basement to get it. And that British manager named Nathaniel looked really strange. He must have sensed something."
Stanton looked at the bag full of gold coins and a smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
"By the time they realized it, it was too late. The fact that the front desk had no reserve funds meant that their buffer against a sudden bank run had been breached."
Stanton pushed open the carriage door and jumped down.
Then he turned his head and looked at the convoy of ten horse-drawn carriages following behind, each carrying fifty burly men and leather suitcases.
"Tell them to get off the bus and take their suitcases."
Stanton straightened his tie.
"I'm going to teach the British how to behave on Wall Street."