“I just couldn’t truckle with that fellow,” he said. “Dick Welmore, eh? Can that be Markham’s real name? Evidently, though, this Wacker doesn’t know Markham is here. He thinks he is somewhere else, ‘snug and tight.’ Oh, bother! there’s only one right course to take in such a case, and I’ll follow it.” Frank decided that at quitting time he would lock himself and Markham into the office, and ask for an explanation of his fear and dread of meeting Dale Wacker. “It won’t be to Markham’s discredit, I’ll guarantee,” reflected Frank. “He’s square, if there ever was a square boy. Here he is now.” Markham appeared, breathing hard and looking excited. He tried, however, to appear calm. His face was quite pale. Frank saw that he was under an intense nervous strain. “Oh, Markham,” said Frank, not indicating that he noticed his friend’s perturbation, “I want you to take that money to Darry Haven.” “All right,” answered Markham, glancing over his shoulder towards the street. “Be careful of it, won’t you now?” directed Frank, with a little laugh. “Remember, it’s our entire capital, and here’s the mailing lists. Tell Darry to get them set up and printed just as quick as he can. We need them at once.” Frank had decided to have the mailing list names printed, each on a separate line with a broad margin. This he did so they could keep a permanent record of the result of using each name. Besides that, in the fire at Riverton the lists had got charred, and some of them were brittle and broken away, and some pages hard to decipher. Markham clasped the wallet containing the money tightly in one hand, thrust it into his outside coat pocket, and tucked the rolled-up lists under his arm. “Be back soon,” he said. “All right, do so. Want to have a little talk with you.” Markham looked up quickly, hesitated, gave a sigh, and started rapidly down the walk. “I’ll have it over and done with, soon as he comes back,” reflected Frank. “Poor fellow. Something’s on his mind. I’m going to help him get rid of it.” Frank resumed his task. He was soon engrossed in finishing up a page of writing. “Good,” he said finally, with satisfaction, “the last copy for the catalogue. It will make twenty-four printed pages. The cuts I have had made and the cuts the supply houses have loaned me make a very fine showing. Well, the first two weeks show up pretty good. Business started, and paying expenses. Why, that’s queer,” exclaimed Frank with a start, as he chanced to glance at the clock--“Markham has been gone a full half-hour.” It was queer. Markham had less than three squares to go on his errand. Usually he made the trip to Haven Bros. in five minutes. Frank walked to the door and looked out. He stood there, growing restless and anxious, as ten minutes went by. Then he grew restless, put on his cap, waited five minutes longer, and, closing the office door, went out to the street.