"Because he can't, that's all I know, and I don't want to know any more. Hendrickson never leaves his room, and will see no one and answer no letters; my man has got them deeds I told you about, and wants to be sure that the old miser's signature is all O. K.; why, he don't tell me, and I'm sure I don't care to know, so long as he is willing to pay for the job he wants done." Now this was not the first time Frank Mansfield had had this proposition made to him by Detective Cutts, nor the second nor the third. He had been introduced to this individual about a month before, by two of his fast companions, the Jim Morrow and Ed Wilson the detective had just named, and in their presence this strange request had been first made, to be renewed upon several occasions since. At first the proposal had been rejected outright. Frank had positively refused to have anything to do with it at all. But, upon its repetition, the boy had been more inclined to lend a willing ear. He was more inclined than ever to do so upon this night. To be sure, he did not more than half believe the detective's statement as to the reason of his singular request; but, after all, he was a member of the police force, an officer of the law, although little older than Frank himself. Detectives were obliged, as he knew well enough, to attain their ends by all sorts of singular means. Surely, in these days of defaulting cashiers and pilfering tellers, there could be no serious harm in letting a police detective copy a signature from the bank's books. Nor was the promised reward without its full weight in the mind of the boy. "Come to me with proof that you are possessed of at least ten thousand dollars, and I will listen to you, and not before," the father of the girl he so devotedly loved had said. Money makes money. With five hundred dollars he would at least obtain a start. Visions of successful speculations in the institutions known as "bucket shops," which cluster around the Stock Exchange, floated through his brain. If he had luck, as many of his acquaintances had had before him, his five hundred might be doubled in no time at all, and the thousand thus increased to ten in a comparative short space of time. And then---- "Well, Cutts, I'll do it!" he exclaimed at last; "but, mind, if you go back on me, I can make it as hot for you at police headquarters as you can for me at the bank. I'll show you the signature-book of the Webster Bank, and let you trace old Hendrickson's autograph from it--but don't expect me to do anything else." "I shan't, my boy, for that's all I want," replied the detective, with an air of triumph. "Now let's have another drink." There were two doors connecting with the private wine room of Dyball's club. One opened into the main or card room, and the other out into the hallway, from which descended the stairs leading to the street.