rdered Ferris,
and he then started his coupe off on the run for the Western Trading
Company's office. Bidding the man wait below, Arthur Ferris took
the elevator and, darting along the hall, smartly rapped at Randall
Clayton's door. It was locked, but the agile Einstein was at once
at his beck and call. "Mr. Clayton's not down yet. I fear he's
ill, sir," respectfully said the lad. "Here's all his office mail
in the ante-room."

Arthur Ferris sharply ordered the lad to watch over the closed
rooms. "Let no one open those rooms," he said. "You'll find me in
Mr. Wade's private office. Let me know the very instant Mr. Clayton
arrives."

Ferris at once rang on Mr. Robert Wade's private telephone, and was
relieved when he learned that the manager had just left his Fifth
Avenue home for the office. There was a crowd of the senior employees
waiting around the door to congratulate the new vice-president, when
old Edward Somers tottered in, his face ashen with fright. Ferris
dropped the telephone ear-cup and sprang forward.

"Speak! What's gone wrong?" he cried. He feared to learn that within
that locked office the moody Clayton lay cold in death--a suicide.

But the old accountant only raised his head and babbled, "There's
something gone wrong with Mr. Clayton. The bank has just sent me
a messenger."

"Our Saturday deposit never reached the bank! He's in there now.
Oh! My God!"

Rapidly turning on the District call for the police, Ferris darted
into Secretary Edson's room.

"Wallace," he cried, "take two of your best men; get pistols. Shut
the offices! Let no one leave! There's been a gigantic robbery
here; perhaps a murder!"

Wallace Edson sprang up, brave and resolute, as Ferris dashed back
to the broken old man.

"How much?" he sharply demanded. "Nearly a quarter of a million!"
the old accountant faltered.

"Where's the bank-book?" cried Ferris, his presence of mind
returning.

"Clayton has it," the bookkeeper sadly said.

Opening a door, Arthur Ferris called in the treasurer. Frank Bell,
jolly and debonnair, had just returned from "no end of a good
time."

"Look out for Somers, here," he ordered. "There's been a great
disaster. Let no one speak to him." And then the young vice-president
went out to meet the arriving police.

Mr. Robert Wade, slowly pacing along Fourteenth Street, had stopped
to whisper a few words in Lilienthal's attentive ear. There was
a delectable "private view" which was ar