of a fair woman.

Arthur Ferris, the dark "Pride of Columbia," as his college-mates
fondly called him, now dreamed of nothing but Alice Worthington's
golden hair and sapphire blue eyes, as the cable-car bore him swiftly
downward to the office of Hatch & Ferris, at 105 Broad Street.

Seven years older than Clayton, the already successful lawyer
recalled on his way the first confidences of the great capitalist,
when Clayton was sent into Manhattan Island business whirlpool.

The silver-haired Detroit widower had forgotten that even New York
City lawyers have hearts, when he had frankly admitted to Ferris
the reasons for detaching Randall Clayton from his own household.

"You see, Ferris," reminiscently said the money magnate, "I owed
my own rise to Clayton's ambitious father. When he retired from
the old firm of Clayton & Worthington, Everett Clayton had a cool
million. It was 'big money' in the days of seventy. But, plunging
into a new railway with an end left hanging out on the wild prairies,
the panic of '72 soon carried Clayton down.

"When he died, out West, I helped the orphan lad along. There was
no trouble until Randall became an inmate of my household, after
his graduation.

"I woke up, however, one day to find that my little Alice had leaped
into womanhood at a bound. And so I have decided to push Clayton's
fortunes from a safe distance. For, the social freedom of the
college lad and the schoolgirl in short frocks cannot be allowed