purs clanking noisily upon the board sidewalk went into the bank
building.

"I want to see Mr. Templeton," he said abruptly to the clerkly looking
individual behind the new lattice work. The words were very quietly
spoken, the voice rather soft and gentle for so big a man. And yet the
cashier turned quickly, looking at him curiously.

"Who shall I say it is?" he demanded.

"This man's town is getting citified mighty fast," the tall man grunted.
"I should have brought my cards! Well, just tell him it's Thornton."

"Thornton?"

"You got it. Buck Thornton, from the Poison Hole ranch."

He spoke lightly, his voice hinting at a vast store of good nature, his
eyes, however, losing meanwhile no glint of their stern light as they
looked at the man to whom he was talking and beyond him watched the door
through which he had entered. The cashier regarded him with new
interest.

"You are early, Mr. Thornton," he said, rather more warmly than he had
spoken before. "But Mr. Templeton will be glad to see you. He is in
his private office. Walk right in."

Thornton stooped, his back to the wall, and swiftly unbuckled his spurs.
Carrying them in his left hand he passed along the lattice work
partition which shut off the cashier with his books and till, and threw
open the door at the end of the short hallway. Here was a sort of
waiting room, to judge from the two or three chairs, the square topped
table strewn with financial journals and illustrated magazines
indiscriminately mixed. He closed the door behind him, standing again
for a moment as he had stood out in the street, his eyes keen and
watchful as they took swift inventory of the room and its furnishings.

Before him was a second door upon the frosted glass top of which were
the stencilled words: J.W. TEMPLETON, President, Private. He took a step
toward the door and then stopped suddenly as though the very vehemence
of the voice bursting out upon the other side of it had halted him.

"I tell you, Miss Waverly," ... it was Templeton's voice, snappy and
irritable, ... "this thing is madness! Pure and simple, unadulterated
madness! It's as devoid of sense as a last year's nest of birds; it's as
full of danger as a ... a ..."

"Never mind exhausting your similes, Mr. Templeton," came the answer,
the girl's voice young and fresh and yet withal firm and a little cool.
"I didn't come to ask your advice, you know. And you haven't given me
what I did come for. If you ..."

Th