Andrew Barrett nodded. H. R. said, seriously: "It's about time sandwiching spread. How many on the Avenue to-day?" "Nineteen firms; one hundred and eleven men. I think--" H. R. knew what Barrett was about to say. He therefore said it for Barrett. "Now that you have Fifth Avenue, move west and east to Sixth and Madison and Fourth and try Broadway and Twenty-third and Thirty-fourth and Forty-second--" "I was just going to propose it to you," said Barrett, aggrievedly. "I know you have brains. That's why you are here. I trust you implicitly. This is a man's job. There will be big money in it for you. For me--" He ceased speaking, and stared meditatively out of the window. Andrew Barrett wondered with all his soul what the chief was reading in big print in the future. Andrew Barrett waited. Presently H. R. frowned. Then he smiled slightly. Barrett stared fascinatedly. Ah, the lure of mystery! If more men appreciated it, polygamy would be inevitable--and liberal divorce laws. H. R. looked up. "Oh, are you here?" he smiled paternally, forgivingly. Barrett beamed. "My boy, I wish you'd run over to Max Onthemaker's or get him on the telephone. The newspapers are going to publish it." "Yes, sir, I will. Er--what are they--what are you going to spring on an enraptured metropolis? "My impending marriage to Grace Goodchild, only daughter of Goodchild, president of the Ketcham National Bank. See that it is well handled. And, Barrett?" "Yes, sir?" "The old people don't relish the idea. She is the most beautiful girl in New York." "I've seen her! Pippinissima!" exclaimed Andrew Barrett, heartfully. "Ten millions," said Hendrik Rutgers, calmly. "My God!" whispered young Mr. Barrett, New-Yorker. He meant what he said. Ten millions! Mr. Onthemaker, Andrew Barrett, and their faithful phalanx of star space men who always signed their stuff called in a body on La Touche, the photographer of the moment. He refused to give them Miss Goodchild's photograph. He wished his name used, of course, but he was too sensible to disregard professional ethics. "Mr. Rutgers said we could get it," said Andrew Barrett, sternly. "I must have her permission. Hang it, boys, I am just as anxious as you--as I can be to do what I can for you. But I don't dare. These swell people are _queer_!" the photographer explained, aggrievedly. "I'll call her up myself," said Max Onthemaker, resolutely. "What's the Goodchild number?" He went to the telephone and gave the number of his own office in low tones. Presently he said, loudly enough to be heard by all, "Is this 777 Fifth Avenue?" He alone heard the answer. He would not lie. He was a lawyer. It was unnecessary. "Can I speak with Miss Goodchild? No; _Miss_ Goodchild."