make your
fortune and save your friendship. Burn this; don't answer, even
by wire, as I shall be swinging around by Pittsburg. Wade is your
only critic. He wants the place for his nephew, Tom. We can't blame
him. Blood is thicker than water, after all; but we'll beat him at
his own game. Rely on me till death."

"This man is either a true friend or else the damnedest villain
alive," muttered Clayton, as he tore the letter into a thousand
fragments. "In two weeks I will know all. The game is made; once
that Jack Witherspoon faces my quondam guardian, I will soon know
whether I am to be prince or pauper."

It only lacked a quarter of eleven when the silver-haired Somers
called Randall Clayton into his wire-screened den, and opened the
door of the high-walled private compartment with its ground-glass
sides.

"Here's your deposit, an unusually large one, Mr. Clayton," murmured
Somers, awed by the concrete wealth lying before him. "You can run
over the cheques. The money I will give you an invoice tag for
a clean one hundred and fifty thousand. The cheques go nearly a
hundred more.

"Here's the list and tag total; they are all endorsed.

"Just have the whole put on our book as cash and cheque deposit. I
must be off! By the way, should you not take a man with you to-day?"

"I have a carriage below," quietly said Clayton, "so I'm all right.
No one will know what's in my bag. I will drive back and put the
book in my own safe. It may be late when I do, as there'll be a
hundred heavy depositors at the Astor to-day. No one wants to keep
funds locked up three days."

Sweeping the bundled bills into the portmanteau, and then locking
up the great wallet of cheques, Randall Clayton absently shook
hands with the fidgety old accountant, now eager for his leave.
"Must catch my train. Take care of yourself," was Somers' hearty
adieu, as he vanished with his ten-year-old umbrella in hand.

Clayton walked across the hall, with the concealed fortune locked
in the travelling bag, and then remembered his pistol thrown into
his desk drawer.

He had just slipped it in his pocket when Emil Einstein glided
into the room.

"Come down," he eagerly whispered, "She's there,--and--there's some
bad news, I fear."

Never waiting for the elevator, Clayton grasped his hat, hastily
donning his top-coat, and snatching the bag, cried, "Lock up my
desk and keep my keys till I come back. Don't leave; remember!"

Everything but Irma Gluya