The banker glanced at the power of attorney, and, shrugging his shoulders, handed it back to Brainard. Apparently he preferred to regard the young stranger as merely a clever adventurer. “That can’t be of much use to you,” he said coldly. Brainard tipped back in his chair and eyed the banker. Finally he brought the chair down on the floor with a bang, and, leaning forward, tapped the banker pleasantly on the knee. “I’m no crook, Herr Schneider—not really, you know! You can think so, if you want to, but it won’t make the price of the goods any cheaper in the end. You might like to hear how I happened to get mixed up in this affair?” He proceeded to tell the story of his movements since that April evening when he had found Krutzmacht in a fit on a New York street. He omitted all references to the vague Melody, who seemed irrelevant for the moment. “An extraordinary story!” the banker commented, with more warmth, but still dubiously. “And it’s all true!” Brainard cried. “Now I want to know a lot of things from you. First, who was Krutzmacht? And why was the old man so dead set on getting his property over here?” The banker’s manner relaxed into its habitual suavity. This extraordinary young American, who looted safes for a chance acquaintance, amused as well as puzzled him. Evidently Brainard was not easily intimidated. The banker resolved upon another method of attack. “Really, young man,” he said, “you know nothing more than you have told me about your—employer?” “Hardly a thing—except that he was mixed up in some big business deals. Naturally, these past weeks, I have wondered a good deal about who he was.” “I should think you might!” the banker agreed, with a laugh. “I can tell you in a few words what I know about him. Mr. Herbert Krutzmacht was a countryman of mine, as you might infer from his name—a native of Mannheim. He went to the States when he was a young man, back in the fifties. Like so many of my countrymen, he carried nothing to your land but his brains and his will. He had many adventures out there. After your Civil War, he moved to the Pacific coast, engaged in mining operations, made a great deal of money, and lost it. He put it all into one property, from which he expected to take a vast fortune, but—” “At Monument, Arizona?” Brainard interrupted. “In Arizona, I think. I don’t remember the name of the place. The mine was called—let me see—yes, the Melody mine.” “The Melody!” Brainard exclaimed, startled. “So that was it, was it?” “What was?” “Nothing—merely a guess of mine. Please proceed!”