These secrets were all hidden in a mass of artfully inserted
characters so as to defy the curious eye of any stranger in case
of mishap, but the young cashier's fingers trembled with eagerness
as he had paused on his way in a corridor to boldly enter an already
beloved name.

"I can easily find her out over there," Clayton murmured. "She
shall not drift out of my life. I must some day read the secret of
those wistful eyes."

But Fritz Braun, anxiously waiting in his den on Sixth Avenue, was
chafing until his labors of the day should cease. "I'm all right,"
he mused, "if that sheepshead Lilienthal does not blunder. I do
not dare to tell him too much. And then, if only Irma follows my
instructions.

"But the wild-hearted witch may speculate in love a little on her
own account. She is only to be trusted as far as any other woman."
He snorted in disdain. "And the fellow is young, eager, good
looking. At any rate, I shall steer them both out of Lilienthal's
clutches. The game is too risky for 'mein frent Adolph.' He is
wrapped up in his greed, his blackmail schemes, his 'sure thing'
villainies.

"Here is the prize of a life to fight for, and--the electric chair
to face--should I be betrayed. Neither of them shall ever know my
little game." The master plotter was busy with dreams of an ill-gotten
harvest soon to ripen.

Braun peered out into his shop, sneeringly glanced at two shop girls