“You win! You get the ten dollars! I get the five-spot. That's how he pays. You obeyed orders. You are the first man that's succeeded in holding the job over one day. The Lord only knows what test Mr. Maynard will prepare for you to-morrow! It may be the children's lunch stunt or the runaway lunatic. Run out! Mr. Maynard won't like you to be here when he comes in. You can go out into the street by that door without going through the carriage-room.” Gray put the ten dollars in his pocket and walked out. “Rum go, that!” he muttered. It was indeed. He nodded his head with a sad sort of triumph to show that though he had not solved the mystery he had at all events grasped the situation and was, moreover, ten dollars to the good. III It was after the opening of the stock-market and most of the early orders had been executed. The rush had given place to the calm efficiency of a well-organized broker's office. Mr. Robison walked into the Customers' Room, approached Gilbert Witherspoon, a valued customer, touched his hat-brim with two fingers in the French military fashion, and said: “Please, where's Mr. Richards?” His nasal twang and his Parisian appearance produced the usual impression of striking incongruity upon all men within hearing distance. Everybody frankly listened. “That's his private office,” answered Witherspoon, non-committally, pointing his finger at a door. “Thank you very much!” said Robison and bowed. Then he knocked, heard a peremptory “Come in!” and disappeared within. Witherspoon, who cultivated a reputation as a wit--there is a buffoon in every stock-broker's office--shrugged his shoulders Frenchily, and, in a nasal voice obviously in imitation of Robison, said: “Another world-beater!” “You never can tell,” retorted Dan McCormack, oracularly. He was fat, always played “mysteries” in the market--traded in those stocks the movements in which were unaccounted for--and he did not like Witherspoon. Inside Mr. Robison had said “_Bon jour!”_ and bowed so very low that Mr. Richards immediately thought of the language of a fashionable bill of fare. “_Wie geht's?_” retorted Richards, jocularly. Then, nicely serious, “How are you this morning?” “Don't I look it?” said Mr. Robison. “I am, of course, perplexed.” “What's the trouble?” “The usual trouble when I try to beat the stock-market--_embarras de richesses_.” “It is an embarrassment that most people would welcome.” “Tut! The more elaborate the menu is in a good restaurant the greater your indecision as to which particular dish you will order! Well, I went through the Menagerie!” There was a catarrhal despair in his voice. “Yes?” “And I am undecided between four.”