ntion and
consideration for which, in his heart, Sprudell knew that he himself had
to pay and pose and scheme.

A thought which was so strong, so like a conviction that it turned him
cold, flashed into his mind as he looked. If, by any whim of Fate, Helen
Dunbar and Bruce Burt should ever meet, all the material advantages
which he had to offer would not count a straw's weight with the girl he
had determined to marry.

But such a meeting was the most remote thing possible. There were nearer
bridges to be crossed, and Sprudell was anxious to be rid of his guests
that he might think.

When Bruce stepped out of the elevator the next morning, Sprudell
greeted him effusively and this time Bruce, though with no great
enthusiasm, took his plump, soft hand. From the first he had a feeling
which grew stronger, as the forenoon waned, that Sprudell was "riding
herd on him," guarding him, warding off chance acquaintances. It amused
him, when he was sure of it, for he thought that it was due to
Sprudell's fear lest he betray him in his role of hero, though it seemed
to Bruce that short as was their acquaintance Sprudell should know him
better than that. When he had the young man corralled in his office at
the Tool Works, he seemed distinctly relieved and his vigilance relaxed.
He handed Bruce his own letter and a roll of notes, saying with a smile
which was uncommonly gracious considering that the money was his own:

"I suppose it won't make any difference to you that your gold-dust has
taken on a different form."

"Why, no," Bruce answered. "It's all the same." Yet he felt a little
surprise. "But the letter from 'Slim's' sister, and the picture--I want
them, too."

"I'm sorry," Sprudell frowned in perplexity, "but they've been mislaid.
I can't think where I put them, to save my soul."

"How could you misplace them?" Bruce demanded sharply. "You kept them
all together, didn't you? I _wanted_ that picture."

"It'll turn up, of course," Sprudell replied soothingly. "And when it
does I'll get it to you by the first mail."

Bruce did not answer--there seemed nothing more to say--but there was
something in Sprudell's voice and eyes that was not convincing. Bruce
had the feeling strongly that he was holding back the letter and the
picture, but why? What could they possibly mean to a stranger? He was
wrong in his suspicions, of course, but nevertheless, he was intensely
irritated by the carelessness.

He arose, and Sprudell did