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for each million. Will that suffice?"
    The priest nodded lamely, then remembered himself. With as much confidence as he could muster, he squeaked, "You cannot bargain for your soul, my son. You must also make a good act of contrition. You must pay these men back."
    "That's impossible, Father."
    "You must pay restitution."
    The shadow paused. Quietly he said, "I shall give the bishop the same sum that I plan to remove from the pockets of my enemies. He may use it toward St. Patrick's. I see fourteen years of building, and still Bishop Hughes's dream of a cathedral for New York is not realized."
    The priest nearly choked.
    "Shall it be three rosaries, Father?"
    The good Irish priest bowed his head in a silent prayer. "Yes," he gasped like a sinner.
    "Thank you, Father."
    "But you shall give some of that money to St. Brendan's."
    "Of course," Sheridan finished smugly.
    "Ego te absolvo . " The priest made a sign of the cross.
    The door to the confessional swung open. The shadow slipped out and using a walking stick moved to the front pew, the Sheridan pew, and began his penance.
    Father Donegal slumped back down on his seat. Another sinner was at the window with the endless words "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ." The housewife-confessor went on to say that she'd been coveting her friend's new gas stove, but he hardly heard her. In only a few minutes, he'd saved the bishop's cathedral, the orphans in Five Points, and Trevor Byrne Sheridan's soul. Now, that wasn't bad for a day's work.
    The Knickerbockers fell just like the expensive German lead soldiers they bought for their little sons at Schwarz Toys. One by one, the families of the invitees to the Sheridan debut found themselves inexplicably in financial ruin. If Sheridan couldn't lead them astray in their stock purchases, he discovered what sound investments they did have and created the worst of all catastrophes—rumor.
    Prosperous Bouwerie Iron Works tumbled to ruin when it was whispered that cheap tin was secretly being unloaded in the yards upon nightfall. Likewise, the Knickerbocker Savings Bank teetered on the precipice of disaster while it was being bandied about that its investments in the Hudson Railroad had faltered. In the end, foolishness and greed brought the Knickerbockers down, not Trevor Sheridan. Again and again they fell victim to the exchange's moody mistress, Illusion of Value.
    The final coup for Sheridan came on a stormy April day when the season's last snowfall powdered Central Park. He was sitting by the fire reading the evening edition of the New York Chronicle when Eagan burst into the room still wearing his overcoat, its shoulders dusted with snowflakes.
    "Good God, have you heard the news?" Eagan shut the doors behind him.
    "You didn't even allow Whittaker to take your hat." Sheridan commented over his newspaper.
    Eagan pulled the black top hat from his head and let the snow on its brim melt on the hearth. "I just came from the Commodore Club. You wouldn't believe the frenzy down there. The markets have gone mad. Every hansom cab from as far as Forty-second Street is lined up taking chaps to the telegraph office. They're wiring to Chicago—and you won't believe what they're trying to corner."
    "Commodities. Potatoes and cabbage, to be exact."
    Eagan stopped. "How did you know that?"
    Sheridan lifted one brow, then leisurely returned to his paper. "Rumor has it blight may come early to Ireland this year."
    "Blight—already? I don't see—" Eagan stopped. He looked at Sheridan, then nearly choked on his own laughter. It was several minutes before he could collect himself to utter a simple sentence. When he finally could, all he said was "Potatoes? Cabbages? Goddammit , Trevor, I'd have never believed it, but you do have a sense of humor."
    Trevor ignored his brother's roundabout praise and asked, "Would you hand me that list on my desk?"
    Eagan took the sheet of paper off the heavy ornate desk. "What's this?"
    "Check off the names De