ear Miss Porter,"
he would say, addressing the back of the driver, "if I could remain
faithful to a dream of my youth, however illusive and unreal, can you
believe that for the sake of lucre I could be false to the one real
passion that alone supplanted it." In the composition and delivery of
this eloquent statement an hour was happily forgotten: the only
drawback to its complete effect was that a misplace of epithets in rapid
repetition did not seem to make the slightest difference, and Cass found
himself saying "Dear Miss Porter, if I could be false to a dream of my
youth, etc., etc., can you believe I could be FAITHFUL to the one real
passion, etc., etc.," with equal and perfect satisfaction. As Miss
Porter was reputed to be well off, if the unknown were poor, that might
be another drawback.

The banking house of Bookham & Sons did not present an illusive nor
mysterious appearance. It was eminently practical and matter of fact; it
was obtrusively open and glassy; nobody would have thought of leaving
a secret there that would have been inevitably circulated over the
counter. Cass felt an uncomfortable sense of incongruity in himself,
in his story, in his treasure, to this temple of disenchanting realism.
With the awkwardness of an embarrassed man he was holding prominently in
his hand an envelope containing the ring and advertisement as a voucher
for his intrusion, when the nearest clerk took the envelope from his
hand, opened it, took out the ring, returned it, said briskly, "T'other
shop, next door, young man," and turned to another customer.

Cass stepped to the door, saw that "T'other shop" was a pawnbroker's,
and returned again with a flashing eye and heightened color. "It's an
advertisement I have come to answer," he began again.

The clerk cast a glance at Cass's scarf and pin. "Place taken
yesterday--no room for any more," he said, abruptly.

Cass grew quite white. But his old experience in Blazing Star repartee
stood him in good stead. "If it's YOUR place you mean," he said coolly,
"I reckon you might put a dozen men in the hole you're rattlin' round
in--but it's this advertisement I'm after. If Bookham isn't in,
maybe you'll send me one of the grown-up sons." The production of the
advertisement and some laughter from the bystanders had its effect.
The pert young clerk retired, and returned to lead the way to the
bank parlor. Cass's heart sank again as he was confronted by a dark,
iron-gray man--in dress,