“I have my reasons,” smiled Stewardson--the smile of a man who knows something funny about you, but does not wish to tell it--not quite yet. It is the most exasperating smile known. Jerningham looked at him a moment. Then he said, coldly: “Why not pick them out haphazard--one here and another there, as if you were sampling a mine and wanted to make sure they hadn't salted it on you?” He turned to the men and said, “Pick out ten at random, no two from the same place; and be sure they are not full of stable litter!” Stewardson flushed, and whispered apologetically to the superintendent, “The more the boys work, the more grateful he will be.” “Oh, he is very generous, anyhow,” said Sullivan, the superintendent, watching his helper and Sheehan pick out the ten boxes at random. Stewardson accompanied Jerningham up-stairs and then excused himself long enough to say to a confidential clerk: “Follow Mr. Jerningham and his ten boxes of gold-dust, and find out what he does, how much he gets, and every detail of interest. Don't let him see you.” The clerk found out and later reported to the vice-president that the ten boxes all contained Alaskan gold-dust, and that their value was $531,687, the boxes averaging a little better than fifty thousand dollars each. Stewardson then had the remaining boxes counted. There were one hundred and twenty-one left. They were worth over six million dollars. Jerningham ought to have the gold-dust coined and then deposit the proceeds in the trust company. The company would allow him two and a half per cent.--or maybe three per cent.--on the six millions. That would be one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year. The company could then loan the entire six millions, not having to bother with keeping a reserve like the national banks, and, the way the money-market was, the money could be loaned at five per cent. That would be three hundred thousand dollars a year. Men properly must end in dust; but dust, when gold, should end in eagles. He would speak to Jerningham about it--one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year that Jerningham was not making--which was silly! And one hundred and twenty thousand a year the company was not making--which was a tragedy! Ashton Welles sent word to the office on the following morning that he would not be down until late, if at all. He did not send word that he had decided to consult his lawyer about the _Society Folk_ article. He had received eight marked copies, addressed to him at his house in different handwritings, and he did not know that on his desk at the office there were a dozen more. Friends always tell you about anonymous attacks anonymously. They wait for them.