“I suppose,” began Richards, trying to look philosophical, “that telling the truth always and every-, where is about as difficult a thing as--” “It isn't a question,” interrupted Robison, with a polite regret, “of as difficult a thing as any, but of the most difficult of all!” “I am afraid I'll have to ask you to tell me what you consider the most difficult thing in the world.” Brokers have to earn their money in more complicated ways than by shouting “Sold!” or “Take it!” on the floor of the Stock Exchange. They have to listen to potential customers. “The most difficult thing in the world, Mr. George B. Richards, is for a man to give money--in cash--to a woman who is not his wife or his mistress or a blood-relation or a pauper!” “That _is_ difficult!” acquiesced the broker. “It is what I have to do. That is why I am here.” “You mean you wish us to give this money--” “No--no! How can you, pray, give money to a lady any better than I?” “I wondered,” said Richards, patiently. He was beginning to fear that Robison might be one of those mysterious people out of whom no money is to be made. “Would you mind hearing my story?” Mr. Robison looked at Richards pleadingly. “Not at all,” politely lied the broker. “There is a lady in New York--to be explicit, an old sweetheart--” Mr. Robison paused, bit his lip, looked away, bit his lip again and cleared his throat loudly. He did all these things so untheatrically that they thrilled the keen-eyed Wall Street man. Presently Mr. Robison went on in that Yankee nasal voice of his that somehow sounded like the extreme antithesis of sentiment: “The only woman I ever loved! I have never married! She did--unfortunately; and now, this girl, this woman, accustomed to every comfort and every refinement, has to earn her own living! She has five children and she is earning her living!” He rose and walked up and down the office like a caged wild animal. Then he sat down again and said, determinedly, “Of course I simply have to do something for her!” “I appreciate your position,” said Richards, tenderly. He was a very good stock-broker. “Thank you. You cannot imagine what she was to me! I came to America to find her. I have found her. I wish to give her money or securities that will insure a comfortable income, and I have to do it circuitously. I'd give half a million to anybody who killed her damned husband! Yes, I would!” He looked at Richards with a wild hope in his eyes. He calmed himself with an obvious effort and proceeded: “Knowing her as I do, and because of--of certain circumstances of our early affair, I know she will never accept any help directly from me. Last night I was calling on her. Other friends of hers were present, among them a man who called himself a lawyer. His name is W. Bailey Jackson. Know him?” “No, I don't. I think I've heard of him, though.” Richards lied from sheer force of professional habit.