He had come to the bank this morning full of his old determination to mind his own business. It was vain, however, as vain as it had always been before. Curtin was so persistently erratic that he compelled one’s attention. Yesterday it had been the collateral box; to-day it was the telephone. He hung over it all the morning, like a child with a new toy. He was spending fifteen minutes out of every hour talking into it, and for the rest of the time he eyed it as though momentarily expecting to see it perform a miracle. It was such an innocent occupation that Jack was angry with himself for taking it so seriously. The other clerks were grinning; well, he would grin too. But it was a very sorry grin. At last he fairly got into his work, and that brought oblivion. When Hillsmead interrupted him, he did not know how long it had been since last he was conscious of his surroundings. “That was a confounded pretty girl,” Hillsmead was saying. “Did you see her?” Jack glanced up impatiently, but worse than that would not have stopped Hillsmead. “I think I’ll have to find out who she was. She’s all right. I wonder what she wanted with Bagsbury?” Jack grabbed his hat. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Do you think you know her? Say, old man, I wouldn’t mind if you’d introduce--She just went out. I think she turned east.” Jack dashed down the aisle without pausing to think on the marvel he had wrought in checking Hillsmead in mid career. At the door he glanced swiftly up and down the street, and by the merest luck got a glimpse of Dick less than a square away. Her pace was a mere stroll, a most unusual thing with Dick. “Hello,” he said, as he overtook her. “Are you in a hurry?” she asked. It was his manner rather than his pace that suggested it. “No, I’m in a thundering temper.” She smiled. “That’s good. You’re great fun when you’re that way. What’s the matter?” “Hillsmead,” he said shortly. “Hillsmead and Curtin.” “Then that was Mr. Hillsmead!” she cried. “Oh, he’s lovely! You’ve never done him justice, Jack. He’s so pretty--and glib, and complacent. I envy you, seeing him every day.” “Where are we going, anyway?” he asked. “Growly!” she commented teasingly. “I don’t know exactly. I think I’m going home.” He said nothing, so in a moment she added, “You’d do well to copy Mr. Hillsmead in one thing.” “That’s rough,” he said. “Rough but righteous. In common courtesy, he has doubtless outstripped me to-day.” “It’s not that; it’s curiosity. He told me that Mr. Bagsbury was out, but that if I would confide my business to him, his valuable services were at my disposal. And he was so sure that he could do it better than Mr. Bagsbury that I nearly told him what it was.” “If I’ll profess Hillsmead’s curiosity, will you tell me?”