of the greatest catch in America were intently regarding a display
of photographs that smiled back at him from every corner of the
room. Not only did he regard these photographs with a savage glare,
but he approached them and carefully studied the inscriptions scrawled
across the face of each.

Post himself cast a glance at the nearest photographs, and then
hastily manoeuvred his client into the hall and closed the door.

"We will now," he exclaimed, "visit the butler's pantry, which
opens upon the dining-room and kitchen, thus saving--"

But Griswold did not hear him. Without giving another glance at
the house he stamped out of it and, plumping himself down in the
motor-car, banged the door. Not until Post had driven him well
into New York did he make any comment.

"What did you say," he then demanded, "is the name of the man who
owns that last house we saw?"

Post told him.

"I never heard of him!" said Griswold as though he were
delivering young Cochran's death sentence. "Who is he?"

"He's an architect in our office," said Post. "We think a lot of
him. He'll leave us soon, of course. The best ones always do. His
work is very popular. So is he."

"I never heard of him," repeated Griswold. Then, with sudden