"My God--" he cried in a voice of terror, "I'm alone!" For the first time he dared to move. His elbow bumped a hundred thousand dollars' worth of unset diamonds. Frightened, he drew back. He collided with a show-case rich in emeralds, rubies and aquamarines. He put out a plump hand to steady himself. It rested on a display case of French, Russian and Dutch silver. Mr. Wall's knees grew weak. He felt a strange prickly sensation all over him. He took a step--and was staring at the finest display of black pearls south of Maiden Lane, New York. Quickly he turned away. His eyes fell upon the door of a huge safety vault. It was swinging open! Little beads of perspiration began to pop out on the forehead of Martin Wall. His heart was hammering like that of a youth who sees after a long separation his lady love. His eyes grew glassy. He took out a silk handkerchief and passed it slowly across his damp forehead. Staggering slightly, he stepped again to the trays of unset stones. The glassy eyes had grown greedy now. He put out one huge hand as the lover aforesaid might reach toward his lady's hair. Then Mr. Wall shut his lips firmly, and thrust both of his hands deep into his trousers pockets. He stood there in the middle of that gorgeous room--a fat figure of a man suffering a cruel inhuman agony. He was still standing thus when the tall man came running back. Apprehension clouded that sallow face. "It was very kind of you." The small eyes of the clerk darted everywhere; then came back to Martin Wall. "I'm obliged--why, what's the matter, sir?" Martin Wall passed his hand across his eyes, as a man banishing a terrible dream. "The little girl?" he asked. "Hardly a scratch," said the clerk, pointing to the smiling child at his side. "It was lucky, wasn't it?" He was behind the counter now, studying the trays unprotected on the show-case. "Very lucky." Martin Wall still had to steady himself. "Perhaps you'd like to look about a bit before I go--" "Oh, no, sir. Everything's all right, I'm sure. You were looking at these stones--" "Some other time," said Wall weakly. "I only wanted an idea of what you had." "Good day, sir. And thank you very much." "Not at all." And the limp ex-guardian passed unsteadily from the store into the glare of the street. Mr. Tom Stacy, of the Manhattan Club, half dozing on the veranda of his establishment, was rejoiced to see his old friend Martin Wall crossing the pavement toward him. "Well, Martin--" he began. And then a look of concern came into his face. "Good lord, man--what ails you?" Mr. Wall sank like a wet rag to the steps. "Tom," he said, "a terrible thing has just happened. I was left alone in Ostby and Blake's jewelry shop." "Alone?" cried Mr. Stacy. "You--alone?" "Absolutely alone." Mr. Stacy leaned over. "Are you leaving town--in a hurry?" he asked. Gloomily Mr. Wall shook his head.