he coach, he projected one of those satisfying conversations in
which imaginative people delight, but which unfortunately never come
quite up to rehearsal. "Dear 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
misplacing 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 eff