At once a deep flush suffused her face, and an expression of annoyance passed over her features. She glanced up hastily at Sprague, who was apparently hard at work upon the background of the picture. The hall-boy was waiting expectantly. "There is no answer," said Agnes quietly. And as the stern mandates of fashion either forbid a woman to wear a pocket, or else decree that it shall be located in some practically inaccessible position, the young girl dropped the letter and its envelope into her lap and resumed the pose. Sprague tried to renew the conversation where it had been interrupted; but his efforts were in vain. Both he and Agnes were preoccupied during the balance of the sitting. When at last the time came for Miss Murdock to leave, Sprague accompanied her to her carriage. After watching it until it disappeared around the corner, he returned moodily to the studio. As he entered the room, his eyes fixed in a vacant stare upon the floor, he caught sight of something white--a sheet of paper--resting there. Mechanically he pushed it to one side with his foot. The sunshine seemed to have gone with Agnes Murdock. A gloom had fallen upon the place and its occupant. The artist tried to work; but he was restless and depressed. At length he threw down his brushes; and rising from the easel, he put on his hat and coat and started out for a walk, in the hope that exercise would drive away the blue devils whose grip he felt tightening upon his heartstrings. Meeting some friends in the course of his aimless wanderings, he was persuaded to spend the rest of the day in their company, and returned to his bachelor quarters late in the evening, tired enough physically to obtain that healthful sleep which is the boon of strong youth. CHAPTER IX. THE KNICKERBOCKER BANK. Richard Dunlap was a man who had never missed a train nor been late in keeping an appointment. On the morning following Sprague's dinner party, he walked briskly down Broadway from City Hall. It was New Year's day; the great thoroughfare was deserted. As he turned into Wall Street, the hands of the clock in Trinity steeple pointed to three minutes of nine. The financier pulled out his chronometer, found that the clock in the old belfry was right, and quickened his pace. Wall Street slumbered peacefully and silently, like a battle-field after the roar of the cannon has been hushed, after the victors and the vanquished have disappeared, leaving behind them only the ghosts of the slain. The deathlike stillness was oppressive.