A handsome limousine had rolled silently up to the club carriage entrance, and the young woman in question was descending from it. Only a miser of adjectives--or a Debritt--would have tried to set forth her triumphant charm in a single word. She was magnificent: a brown-eyed blonde of the Olympian type, exuberantly feminine in the many dazzling luxuriances of ripe-lipped, full-figured maidenhood. The salesman saw his companion make a move to rise, but the beauty passed on into the club-house without looking their way. "You know her, I suppose; you know everybody in town," Debritt said, after the cashier had again settled himself in the lounging-chair. Smith's nod was expressive of something more than a fellow townsman's degree of intimacy. "I ought to," he admitted. "She is Miss Verda Richlander, the daughter of our one and only multimillionaire. Also, I may add that she is my very good friend." Debritt's chuckling laugh proved that his prefigurings had already outrun the mere statement of fact. "Better and more of it," he commented. "I'm going to congratulate you before you can escape--or is it a bit premature?" "Some of the Lawrenceville gossips would tell you that it isn't; but it is, just the same. Mr. Josiah Richlander has but one measure for the stature of a man, and the name of it is money. The fellow who asks him for Miss Verda is going to have a chance to show up his bank-account and the contents of his safety-deposit box in short order." "In that case, I should imagine you'd be lying awake nights trying to study up some get-rich-quick scheme," joked the guest. "Perhaps I am," was the even-toned rejoinder. "Who knows?" The round-bodied salesman broke an appreciative cough in the middle and grew suddenly thoughtful. "Don't do that, Monty," he urged soberly; "try to take any of the short cuts, I mean. It's the curse of the age; and, if you'll take it from me, your chances are too good--and too dangerous." The good-looking, athletic young cash-keeper planted in the opposite chair met the salesman's earnest gaze level-eyed. "Having said that much, you can hardly refuse to say more," he suggested. "I will say more; a little more, anyway. I've been wanting to say it all the afternoon. My job takes me into nearly every bank in the Middle West, as you know, and I can't very well help hearing a good bit of gossip, Montague. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by assuming that you don't thoroughly know the man you are working under." The cashier withheld his reply until the Olympian young woman, who was coming out, had stepped into her limousine to be driven away townward. Then he said: "Mr. Dunham--our president? Oh, yes; I know him very well, indeed." "I'm afraid you don't." "I ought to know him," was the guarded assumption. "I've been with him six years, and during that time I have served a turn at every job in the bank up to, and now and then including, Mr. Dunham's own desk."