“Hello,” he said, cordially. “I thought you might get in to-day, so I came round to see. Sorry you've taken a room. I wanted you to sleep with me to-night. Sister's gone, and no one is there but the cook. Hello, I must be careful. I'm drumming for business right under Sanford's nose.” “I 'll make you stay with me to make up for it,” said Alan, as the clerk behind the counter laughed good-naturedly over the allusion to himself. “Blamed if I don't think about it,” said Miller. “Come round to the office. I want to talk to you. I reckon you've got every plough going such weather as this.” “Took my horse out of the field to drive over,” said Alan, as they went out and turned down to a side street where there was a row of law offices, all two-roomed buildings, single-storied, built of brick, and bearing battered tin signs. One of these buildings was Miller's, which, like all its fellows, had its door wide open, thus inviting all the lawyers in the “row” and all students of law to enter and borrow books or use the ever-open desk. Rayburn Miller was a man among ten thousand in his class. Just after being graduated at the State University he was admitted to the bar and took up the practice of law. He could undoubtedly have made his way at this alone, had not other and more absorbing talents developed within him. Having had a few thousand dollars left him at his father's death, he began to utilize this capital in “note shaving,” and other methods of turning over money for a handsome profit furnished by the unsettled conditions, the time, and locality. He soon became an adept in many lines of speculation, and as he was remarkably shrewd and cautious, it is not to be wondered at that he soon accumulated quite a fortune. “Take a seat,” he said to Alan, as they went into the office, and he threw himself into the revolving-chair at his littered desk. “I want to talk to you. I suppose you are in for some fun. The boys are getting up a dance at the hotel and they want your dollar to help pay the band. It's a good one this time. They've ordered it from Chattanooga. It will be down on the seven-thirty-five. Got a match?” Alan had not, and Miller turned his head to the open door. An old negro happened to be passing, with an axe on his shoulder. “Heigh, there, Uncle Ned!” Miller called out. The negro had passed, but he heard his name called and he came back and looked in at the door. “Want me, Marse Rayburn?” “Yes, you old scamp; get me a match or I 'll shoot the top of your head off.” “All right, suh; all right, Marse Rayburn!” “You ought to know him,” said Miller, with a smile, as the negro hurried into the adjoining office. “His wife cooks for Colonel Barclay; he might tell you if Miss Dolly's going to-night, but I know she is. Frank Hillhouse checked her name off the list, and I heard him say she'd accepted. By-the-way, that fellow will do to watch. I think he and the Colonel are pretty thick.”