“An old college chum—Vreeland of Princeton, and a rattling good fellow.” Fred Hathorn eyed with a certain qualminess the easy _aplomb_ of his Crœsus partner, as Jimmy Potter pressed closely to the side of Hathorn’s destined bride, Miss Moneybags. That young lady was destined to play the rôle of Queen of Diamonds in the ambitious young banker’s life. He had resolutely set up the motto, “_Aut Cæsar, aut nullus_,” and he was just a bit shy of the beloved James trifling with his dashing fiancée. “All sorts of things happen in New York,” mused the agnostic Hathorn, as he handed the ladies into a waiting victoria and then turned to rejoin the man who more than ever had now decided to paddle a bit, as well as to drift on with the tide of fortune. There was a glow of satisfaction burning in the Western adventurer’s heart as, half an hour later, he noted Hathorn dash off his potent signature behind his guest’s name on the visitor’s book of the Old York Club. It was the _open sesame_ to the regions of the blest—young New York _par excellence_. The trio adjourned to the billiard room, and, then and there, Vreeland for the first time tasted the famous club cocktail. He was “living up to his blue china,” as he gravely bowed when Hathorn gave him a two-weeks’ card. “I’ll have it renewed for you, old fellow,” lightly remarked the young banker. “Pity our waiting list is so long. We must try to get your name advanced, by hook or crook.” While Hathorn departed to give his personal orders for the dinner, Jimmy Potter drew apart to glance over a handful of cards, letters and _billets d’amour_ which a grave old club steward had handed to him. He critically selected two, the missives of “she who must be obeyed,” and then carelessly slipped the fardel of the others into the oblivion of his breast pocket. He sat there, the ferret-eyed young millionaire, glowering after Hathorn’s retreating form. “Pity to see Alida VanSittart wasted on that cold human calculating machine! Fred is as indurated as a steel chisel.” The little child of Pactolus felt his tiny veins still tingling with the exhalant magnetism of the budding heiress whom Hathorn had selected as a second spoke in that wheel of fortune of which the unconscious Jimmy was the main stay. The aforesaid young patrician, Miss Alida, was “divinely tall” and of a ravishing moonlight beauty, two elements of ensnaring witchery to the dapper, _blasé_ young Midas, whose little patent leathers had pattered vainly along after the stride of that elastic young goddess. The alert Vreeland grimly eyed the eager Jimmy Potter, and noted the tell-tale quiver of the youth’s slim fingers as he fished out the two “star” leaders of his evening mail. “I would like just one night with that chap at poker, with no limit,” gravely mused Vreeland, with an inspirational sigh. “He looks soft.” While the _parvenu_ “sized up” his man, he was aware of a hum of murmured comment at a table near him.