a frown, and generally you dismiss them from your
mind with some such thought as this--"He'll get in trouble yet," or "I
wouldn't be surprised if he makes a great man some day"--or "Something
will happen to that girl yet, if she isn't careful!"

That, in short, was the sort of a character that Burdon Woodward had
always been to Mary. For as long as she could remember him, she had
associated him with romance and drama.

To her he had been Raffles, the amateur cracksman. He had also been
Steerforth in David Copperfield--and time after time she had drowned him
in the wreck. In stories of buccaneers he was the captain--sometimes
Captain Morgan, sometimes Captain Kidd--or else he was Black Jack with
Dora in his power and trembling in the balance whether to become a hero
or a villain. As Mary grew older these associations not only lingered;
they strengthened.

Not long before her father died she read in the paper of a young
desperado, handsome and well-dressed, who held up a New York jeweller at
the point of a gun and relieved him of five thousand dollars' worth of
diamond rings. The story was made remarkable by a detail. An old woman
was sitting at the corner, grinding a hand-organ, and as the robber ran
past her, he dropped one of the rings into her cup.

"Oh, dad," Mary had said, looking up and speaking on impulse, "did I hear
you say last night that Burdon Woodward was in New York?"

"No, dear. Boston."

"Mm," thought Mary. "He'd say he was going to Boston for a blind." And
for many a week after that she slyly watched his fingers, to see if she
could catch him red-handed so to speak, wearing one of those rings! Yet
even while she glanced she had the grace to smile at her fancies.

"All the same," she told herself, "it sounded an awful lot like him."

The encounter which I am now going to tell you about took place one
morning after Mary had been elected to the presidency of the company. She
had just finished breakfast when Burdon telephoned.

"Your father had some private papers in his desk down here," he said. "I
was wondering if you'd like to come down and look them over."

"Thank you," she said. "I will."

Josiah's private room in the factory office building had been an
impressive one, high-ceiled and flanked with a fire-place which was,
however, never lighted. Ancestral paintings and leather chairs had added
their notes of distinction. The office of any executive will generally
reflect not only his own pers