The banker cleared his throat again, and looked a trifle embarrassed as he spoke. "The fact of the matter is, Mr. Prale," he said, "that we do not care for the account." "I beg your pardon!" Prale exclaimed. "You mean you don't want me to leave my money in your bank?" "Just that, Mr. Prale." "But in Heaven's name, why? I should think that any financial institution would be glad to get a new account of that size." "I--er--I cannot go into details, sir," the banker said. "But I must tell you that we'd be glad if you'd make arrangements to move the deposit to some other bank." "I suppose you don't like to be bothered with small accounts," said Prale, with the suspicion of a sneer in his voice. "Very well, sir! I'll see that the deposit is transferred before night. Perhaps I can find banks that will be glad to take the money and treat me with respect. And I shall remember this, sir!" "I--er--have no choice in the matter," the banker said. "Can't you explain what it means?" "I have nothing to say--nothing at all to say," stammered the financier. "We took the money because of our Honduras correspondent, but we'll appreciate it very much if you do business with some other institution." "You can bet I'll do that little thing!" Prale exclaimed. He left the office angrily and stalked from the building. Were the big financiers of New York insane? A man with a million in cold cash has the right to expect that he will be treated decently in a bank. Prale walked down the street and grew angrier with every step he took. Before going to Honduras he had worked for a firm of brokers. He hurried toward their office now. He would send in his card to his old employer, Griffin, he decided, and ask his advice about banking his funds, and incidentally whether the financier he had just left was an imbecile. He found the Griffin concern in the same building, though the offices were twice as large now, and there were evidences of prosperity on every side. "Got an appointment?" an office boy demanded. "No, but I fancy that Mr. Griffin will see me," said Prale. "I used to work for him years ago." Then he sat down to wait. Griffin would be glad to see him, he thought. Griffin was a man who always liked to see younger men get along. He would want to know how Sidney Prale got his million. He would want to take him to luncheon and exhibit him to his friends--tell how one of his young men had forged ahead in the world. The boy came back with his card. "Mr. Griffin can't see you," he announced. "Oh, he's busy, eh? Did he make an appointment?" "No, he ain't busy," said the boy. "He's got his feet set up on the desk and he's readin' about yesterday's ball game. He said to say that he didn't have time to see you this mornin', and that he wouldn't ever have time to see you." "Don't be discourteous, you young imp!" Prale said, his face flushing. "You're sure you handed Mr. Griffin my card?"