“That's all right for an understanding between us two. But I let the public think you're the whole thing. I tell 'em I've got full confidence in you. You don't want the public to think you're only a rubber stamp, do you?” “The general opinion right now seems to be that I'm either a first-class liar or Shylock sentenced to a second term on earth,” retorted Vaniman, with bitterness. There was a long silence in the room, where the early dusk was deepening. The two men regarded each other with expressions that did not soften. After a time Britt turned to his desk, unlocked a compartment, and produced a letter, which he unfolded slowly, again staring hard at the cashier. “Speaking of being sentenced!” There was something ominous in his drawl. “You told me a whole lot about yourself, Vaniman, when I was talking of hiring you. But there was one important thing you didn't mention--mighty important, seeing that you wanted a job as boss of a bank.” He tapped the open letter. “I've had this letter for a good many weeks, not saying anything about it to you or anybody else. I'm not sure just why I'm saying anything now.” Vaniman flushed. His face worked with emotion. He put up his hand and started to speak, but Britt put up a more compelling hand and went on. “I reckon I'm bringing this matter up so that you'll know just where you stand--so that you'll mind your eye and look out for my interests in every way from now on--so that--” He hesitated a moment. His eyes flamed. “So that you'll know your place! That's it! Know your place--and be mighty careful how you go against me in anything--anything where I'm interested.” Britt had whipped himself into anger. That anger, fanned by a flame of jealousy after it had been touched off by his inspection of youth and good looks, had carried Mr. Britt far. He shook the letter at the young man. “There's a reliable name signed to this letter; he is a friend of mine, one of the big financiers in the city, and this was in the way of friendly warning.” “I understand, Mr. Britt.” The cashier had recovered his self-possession. “You are warned that my father was sentenced to the penitentiary for embezzlement. No, I did not mention that to you. It concerned a man who is dead. It has nothing to do with my honesty.” “Well, there's another motto about 'blood will tell,'” sneered Britt. Vaniman stepped forward, honestly indignant, manfully resolute. “Let me tell you, sir, that the letter you hold there--no matter who wrote it--concerns a _good_ man who is dead. He was the scapegoat of one of those big financiers.” Vaniman's lip curled. “My father was railroaded to jail on a track greased with lies--and died because the heart had been ripped out of him and--”