The man approached the “cashier” window because it was open. He was tall and well built, with unmyopic eyes that looked through tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. The brim of his high hat, the cut of his coat, the hang of his trousers, the hue of his necktie and the gray, waxed, needle-pointed mustaches proclaimed him unmistakably Parisian. “I wish to see Mr. Richards,” he said, in a nasal voice, so like the twang of a stage Yankee that the cashier frowned and twisted his neck to see if some down-easter were not hiding behind the Frenchman. “You what?” asked the cashier, and looked watchful. “I wish to see,” repeated the stranger, with a formal precision meant, to be rebuking, “Mr. George B. Richards, senior member, I believe, of this firm.” The cashier, with a frown that belied the courtesy of his words, said: “Would you be kind enough to tell me the nature of your business, sir?” Gourley, the cashier, insanely hated book agents, and his one pleasure in life consisted of violently ejecting them from the office. When a man clearly established his innocence Gourley never forgave him for cheating him out of the kicking. The stranger said, very slowly: “The nature of my business with Mr. Richards is private, personal, and urgent!” The stranger might, be a customer, and customers make brokers rich and give wages to cashiers. “Mr. Richards is very busy just now, sir, with an important conference. It would be a favor if you could let me have your name.” “He doesn't know me and he has never heard my name.” “Would any one else do?” The stranger shook his head. Then: “Say to Mr. Richards that a gentleman from Paris wishes to give to him--personally--ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret.” The man's gaze was fixed frowningly on Gourley. “Ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret!” repeated Gourley, dazedly. “Here, Otto. Hold the fort. I'll go myself.” The cashier's place was promptly occupied by a moon-faced Teuton. Presently Gourley, whose misanthropy had in this instance merely made an office-boy of him, returned to the window and said, in the insolent tones of a puglistic _agent provocateur_: “He says to send in the letters of introduction.” “My friend,” said the stranger, so impressively that the cashier was made uneasy, “are you sure Mr. Richards said that?” “Well--ah--he said,” stammered Gourley, “to ask you--er--would you please send in the letters. He will read them, and as soon as possible he will--ah--see you.” “H'm!” muttered the stranger, skeptically. Then, as a man rids himself of angry thoughts, he shook his head and, without another word, went out. “Ha! I knew it all along,” said Gourley, triumphantly, to his assistant, Otto. “It beats the Dutch what schemes these damned book agents get up to see people during business hours. But I called his bluff that time!”