o, by memories, and by a sharp regret for
his own foolish thoughtlessness. Even the fortune itself weighed upon
him at moments with a half-defined melancholy.

Yet the situation was not without its compensations. For several days
when Ellis called him at seven, he would answer him and thank fortune
that he was not required at the bank that morning. The luxury of
another hour of sleep seemed the greatest perquisite of wealth. His
morning mail amused him at first, for since the newspapers had
published his prosperity to the world he was deluged with letters.
Requests for public or private charity were abundant, but most of his
correspondents were generous and thought only of his own good. For
three days he was in a hopeless state of bewilderment. He was visited
by reporters, photographers, and ingenious strangers who benevolently
offered to invest his money in enterprises with certified futures. When
he was not engaged in declining a gold mine in Colorado, worth five
million dollars, marked down to four hundred and fifty, he was avoiding
a guileless inventor who offered to sacrifice the secrets of a
marvelous device for three hundred dollars, or denying the report that
he had been tendered the presidency of the First National Bank.

Oliver Harrison stirred him out early one morning and, while the sleepy
millionaire was rubbing his eyes and still dodging the bombshell that a
dream anarchist had hurled from the pinnacle of a bedpost, urged him in
excited, confidential tones to take time by the forelock and prepare
for possible breach of promise suits. Brewster sat on the edge of the
bed and listened to diabolical stories of how conscienceless females
had fleeced innocent and even godly men of wealth. From the bathroom,
between splashes, he retained Harrison by the year, month, day and
hour, to stand between him and blackmail.

The directors of the bank met and adopted resolutions lamenting the
death of their late president, passed the leadership on to the first
vice-president and speedily adjourned. The question of admitting Monty
to the directory was brought up and discussed, but it was left for Time
to settle.

One of the directors was Col. Prentiss Drew, "the railroad magnate" of
the newspapers. He had shown a fondness for young Mr. Brewster, and
Monty had been a frequent visitor at his house. Colonel Drew called him
"my dear boy," and Monty called him "a bully old chap," though not in
his presence. But the existence