privileges of the old Hungarian noblesse."

With crimsoned cheeks Randall Clayton was speeding away to the bank
before he had digested the crafty dealer's story. He was reassured
at the mention of Robert Wade's name and, hemmed in, all in ignorance
that his grave-mannered superior often met a bit of very lively
"French color" in the luxurious solitude of the "private view"
room, as yet a terra incognita to the young cashier.

For Mr. Robert Wade had a "Sunday-school reputation" to support,
and was dignified, worldly wise, a pillar of a fashionable church,
and hence, duly sly. His left hand often wisted not the doings of
his right hand, and Lilienthal found in Mr. Robert Wade a judicious
and accommodating patron.

"This is a simple-minded youth," grinned Lilienthal, as he turned
away. "He has swallowed my story, and--I fancy I see Mr. Fritz
Braun's little game. I wonder if the Vienna witch is still over
there. I must hurry up and post her. This young chap may be a good
customer, for he handles plenty of money." And the brisk Figaro darted
away, his eyes gleaming in the ardor of the undying covetousness
of the Israelite.

While Mr. Adolph Lilienthal was cautiously conducting a Philadelphia
money magnate into the "Private Gallery," a closely veiled lady
was entering that sanctum from the photographer's hall. The secret
of the two double rings of the push button admitted her to the
"packing room," where an innocent-faced young German lad stood guard
over the complicated system of letter boxes, telegraph racks, and
telephones in that jealously guarded "packing room."