Sprudell grew a curious, chalky white and stood quite still. He felt his color going and turned quickly lest it be observed. Apologetically, to his guests: "One moment, if you please." He remembered that Bruce Burt had warned him that he would come back and haunt him--he wished the corridor was one mile long. There was nothing of the wraith, or phantom, however, in the broad-shouldered figure in a wide-brimmed Stetson sitting in the office watching Sprudell's approach with ominous intentness. With a fair semblance of cordiality Sprudell hastened forward with outstretched hand. "I'm amazed! Astonished--" "I thought you would be," Bruce answered grimly, ignoring Sprudell's hand. "I came to see about that letter--what you've done." "Everything within my power, my friend--they're gone." "Gone! You could not find them?" "Not a trace." Sprudell looked him squarely in the eye. "You did your best?" "Yes, Burt, I did my best." "Well," Bruce got up slowly, "I guess I'll register." His voice and face showed his disappointment. "You live here, they said, so I'll see you in the morning and get the picture and the 'dust'." "In the morning, then. You'll excuse me now, won't you? I have a little dinner on." He lingered a moment to watch Bruce walk across the office and he noticed how he towered almost head and shoulders above the clerk at the desk: and he saw also, how, in spite of his ill-fitting clothes so obviously ready-made, he commanded, without effort, the attention and consideration for which, in his heart, Sprudell knew that he himself had to pay and pose and scheme. A thought which was so strong, so like a conviction that it turned him cold, flashed into his mind as he looked. If, by any whim of Fate, Helen Dunbar and Bruce Burt should ever meet, all the material advantages which he had to offer would not count a straw's weight with the girl he had determined to marry. But such a meeting was the most remote thing possible. There were nearer bridges to be crossed, and Sprudell was anxious to be rid of his guests that he might think. When Bruce stepped out of the elevator the next morning, Sprudell greeted him effusively and this time Bruce, though with no great enthusiasm, took his plump, soft hand. From the first he had a feeling which grew stronger, as the forenoon waned, that Sprudell was "riding herd on him," guarding him, warding off chance acquaintances. It amused him, when he was sure of it, for he thought that it was due to Sprudell's fear lest he betray him in his role of hero, though it seemed to Bruce that short as was their acquaintance Sprudell should know him better than that. When he had the young man corralled in his office at the Tool Works, he seemed distinctly relieved and his vigilance relaxed. He handed Bruce his own letter and a roll of notes, saying with a smile which was uncommonly gracious considering that the money was his own: