It was for him an anxious morning.
His heart would have leaped up in a wild joy had he known how carefully Randall Clayton had already entered the accidentally found address in the little silver-clasped address book, in which he had recorded, with judicious cabalistic cloudiness, the combinations of his safes and certain vital private business memoranda.
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.