at his office door. "I have a telegram that Mr. Wade is sick in
his bed. I am to take the consolidated accounts up to him to-night."

And so Randall Clayton handed over his papers without a word. "It
will probably be the last account I will ever render here," he
savagely mused, as he clashed his roll-top desk. "I wish that I had
broken it all off when Wade brought on the half quarrel. I should
have taken a friend with me, drawn out my little hoard, gone West
and faced Worthington before he successfully works this infamous
deal.

"Now I am powerless. He may tell us both to go to the devil."

And then Clayton sadly remembered that he depended only on Jack
Witherspoon's mere hearsay for any proofs of wrong-doing. "Yes!
I've only Jack's eagerness to marry that dainty Francine Delacroix
to thank for my fortune--if I ever get it. A woman whom I never
have seen decides my whole destiny, while I would give my life up,
my last drop of blood, for Irma!"

Ah! All unknown to him, a dozen busy minds were weaving snares for
his wandering feet. While Clayton, at last, saw Madame Raffoni
cautiously approaching, in his superb Fifth Avenue residence, the
sick man, Robert Wade, was closeted with the wolfish-eyed Arthur
Ferris, the parchment-faced Somers, and four of the seven directors
of the Trading Company.

On guard, lingering around Clayton's apartment, two mercantile
agent's spies were waiting to pipe him off and report his every
movement secretly to the returned Ferris, now breathless with