Frank consulted the sheets of writing he had read to his mother the evening previous. They contained his business plans. He had figured out what two hundred dollars would do towards starting a modest mail order business. However, so much depended on the result of his interview with Mr. Morton in the city, that Frank awaited that event with a good deal of anxiety. When the train neared the terminus Frank took a good wash, put on a clean collar, and tidied up generally. Leaving the train he bought a satisfactory meal at a restaurant, and was ready for business. Frank soon located the book concern in which Mr. Morton had invested his money. It occupied four gaudy offices, one of which was occupied exclusively by Mr. Morton. Frank had to wait his turn for an interview. While seated in the anteroom, he learned something of the business going on from the conversation of some callers there. It appeared that the concern sold book outfits to canvassers on a conditional salary guarantee. From what Frank gleaned very few ever made good, so the chief revenue of the company came from the original outfit sale. Finally Frank was called into Mr. Morton’s office. The latter looked him over with an urbane smile. “Came in response to our advertisement for agents, I suppose?” he inquired. “Not at all,” replied Frank. “It is solely on personal business. I came to see you, sir--about your old business at Riverton.” Mr. Morton shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as though the reminder was unpleasant. “Bills?” he growled out. “Thought I’d settled everything--sick of the whole business, and threw it up in the air for good. Go on.” “Why,” said Frank, “I sort of represent the people who bought the salvage from the fire insurance folks.” “I have nothing to do with that.” “Among the debris there was a zinc box with some of your papers in it.” “Yes, I remember,” nodded Mr. Morton. “Nearly all burned up, weren’t they?” “No, sir. In looking them over I found some of your old customers’ accounts, and that like. I thought they might be valuable to you, so I came down from Greenville where I live to bring them to you.” “You did?” exclaimed Mr. Morton with a stare, partly suspicious, partly surprised. “That’s queer.” Frank said no more. He opened the suit case and removed its two neatly put up packages. One contained the private papers of Mr. Morton. The other contained the mailing lists and mail order system layout. Frank placed the two parcels on the desk before his host. The latter chanced to open the larger package first. He carelessly ran over the lists and the accompanying literature. “H’m,” he said rather irritably, “I’ve little use for that monument of my fool-killer experiment!” Frank was relieved--in fact, pleased, to observe Mr. Morton contemptuously sweep aside the litter before him and inspect the second package. This interested him. He sorted out quite a lot of bills and receipts.