Randall Clayton was an enigma in his altered personal bearing
to his old confreres when he entered the manager's office at his
summons on a balmy afternoon of the dying days of June.

The two months since Jack Witherspoon's departure had changed the
frank young fellow into a taciturn man of feline secretiveness. The
discovery of Worthington's treachery, the knowledge of the dogging
spies at his heels, had been a suddenly transforming influence. He
now ardently burned for the return of his one confidant, for the
annual election was but a few days distant.

The ripening summer was coming on fast. On Fifth Avenue the delicate,
haughty-faced young Princesses of Mammon now bore the June blush
roses in their slender pitiless hands. The annual hegira pleasureward
was beginning.

And as yet only Randall Clayton's burning eyes marked the conflict
raging in his soul. But he longed to leap into the open, and boldly
defy Worthington. For a new purpose had stolen upon him in these
weeks--the sudden desire for wealth.

He craved money for but one object--to cast it at the feet of
Irma Gluyas and then to bear her away from a world of lies to the
storied Danube, where woman's rosy lip rests in clinging transports
upon lips speaking the wild love of the gallant Magyar land. He
now knew the power of wealth. Clayton had become as secretive as
the young Pawnee on his first warpath. He was now watching the
enemy's camp and awaiting the moves of both the guilty employer