“Give them to me!” she protested. “What on earth for? You're joking, Mr. Tutt.”

“Not a bit of it!” he retorted. “I don't make any pretensions as to the value of my gift, but they're yours for whatever they're worth.”

He wrapped them carefully in a piece of paper and returned the balance to Doc Barrows' dress-suit case.

“Aren't you afraid to leave them that way?” she asked, surprised.

“Not at all! Not at all!” he laughed. “You see there are fortunes lying all about us everywhere if we only know where to look. Now the first thing to do is to get your bonds back from the bank.”

Mr. Thomas McKeever, the popular loan clerk of the Mustardseed National, was just getting ready for the annual visit of the state bank examiner when Mr. Tutt, followed by Mrs. Effingham, entered the exquisitely furnished boudoir where lady clients were induced by all modern conveniences except manicures and shower baths to become depositors. Mr. Tutt and Mr. McKeever belonged to the same Saturday evening poker game at the Colophon Club, familiarly known as The Bible Class.

“Morning, Tom,” said Mr. Tutt. “This is my client, Mrs. Effingham. You hold her note, I believe, for ten thousand dollars secured by some government bonds. She has a use for those bonds and I thought that you might be willing to take my indorsement instead. You know I'm good for the money.”

“Why, I guess we can accommodate her, Mr. Tutt!” answered the Chesterfieldian Mr. McKeever. “Certainly we can. Sit down, Mrs. Effingham, while I send for your bonds. See the morning paper?”

Mrs. Effingham blushingly acknowledged that she had not seen the paper. In fact, she was much too excited to see anything.

“Sign here!” said the loan clerk, placing the note before the lawyer.

Mr. Tutt indorsed it in his strange, humpbacked chirography.

“Here are your bonds,” said Mr. McKeever, handing Mrs. Effingham a small package in a manila envelope. She took them in a half-frightened way, as if she thought she was doing something wrong.

“And now,” said Mr. Tutt, “the lady would like a box in your safe-deposit vaults; a small one-about five dollars a year-will do. She has quite a bundle of securities with her, which I am looking into. Most if not all of them are of little or no value, but I have told her she might just as well leave them as security for what they are worth, in addition to my indorsement. Really it's just a slick game of ours to get the bank to look after them for nothing. Isn't it, Mrs. Effingham?”

“Ye-es!” stammered Mrs. Effingham, not understanding what he was talking about.

“Well,” answered Mr. McKeever, “we never refuse collateral. I'll put the bonds with the note-” His eye caught the edges of the bundle. “Great Scott, Tutt! What are you leaving all these bonds here for against that note? There must be nearly a hundred thousand dol-”

“I thought you never refused collateral, Mr. McKeever!” challenged Mr. Tutt sternly.

Twenty minutes later the exquisite blonde that acted as Mr. Badger's financial accomplice learned from Mrs. Effingham's faltering lips that the widow would like to see the great man in regard to further investments.

“How does it look, Mabel?” inquired the financier from behind his massive mahogany desk covered with a six by five sheet of plate glass. “Is it a squeal or a fall?”

“Easy money,” answered Mabel with confidence. “She wants to put a mortgage on the farm.”

“Keep her about fourteen minutes, tell her the story of my philanthropies, and then shoot her in,” directed Badger.

So Mrs. Effingham listened politely while Mabel showed her the photographs of Mr. Badger's home for consumptives out in Tyrone, New Mexico, and of his wife and children, taken on the porch of his summer home at Seabright, New Jersey; and then, exactly fourteen minutes having elapsed, she was shot in.

“Ah! Mrs. Effingham! Delighted! Do be seated!” Mr. Badger's smile was like that of the boa constrictor about to swallow the rabbit.

“About my oil stock,” hesitated Mrs. Effingham.

“Well, what about it?” demanded Badger sharply. “Are you dissatisfied with your twenty per cent?”

“Oh, no!” stammered the old lady. “Not at all! I just thought if I could only get the note paid off at the Mustardseed Bank I might ask you to sell the collateral and invest the proceeds in your gusher.”

“Oh!” Mr. Badger beamed with pleasure. “Do you really wish to have me dispose of your securities for you?”

He did not regard it as necessary to inquire into the nature of the collateral. If it was satisfactory to the Mustardseed National it must of course exceed considerably the amount of the note.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Effingham timidly; and she handed him the letter dictated by Mr. Tutt.

“Well,” replied Mr. Badger thoughtfully, after reading it, “what you ask is rather unusual-quite unusual, I may say, but I think I may be able to attend to the matter for you. Leave it in my hands and think no more about it. How have you been, my dear Mrs. Effingham? You're looking extraordinarily well!”

Mr. McKeever had about concluded his arrangements for welcoming the state bank examiner when the telephone on his desk buzzed, and on taking up the receiver he heard the ingratiating voice of Alfred Haynes Badger.

“Is this the Loan Department of the Mustardseed National?”

“It is,” he answered shortly.

“I understand you hold a note of a certain Mrs. Effingham for ten thousand dollars. May I ask if it is secured?”

“Who is this?” snapped McKeever.

“One of her friends,” replied Mr. Badger amicably.

“Well, we don't discuss our clients' affairs over the telephone. You had better come in here if you have any inquiries to make.”

“But I want to pay the note,” expostulated Mr. Badger.

“Oh! Well, anybody can pay the note who wants to.”

“And of course in that case you would turn over whatever collateral is on deposit to secure the note?”

“If we were so directed.”

“May I ask what collateral there is?”

“I don't know.”

“There is some collateral, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have an order from Mrs. Effingham directing the bank to turn over whatever securities she has on deposit as collateral, on my payment of the note.”

“In that case you'll get 'em,” said Mr. McKeever gruffly. “I'll get them out and have 'em ready for you.”

“Here is my certified check for ten thousand; dollars,” announced Alfred Haynes Badger a few minutes later. “And here is the order from Mrs. Effingham. Now will you kindly turn over to me all the securities?”

Mr. McKeever, knowing something of the reputation of Mr. Badger, first called up the bank which had certified the latter's check, and having ascertained that the certification was genuine he marked Mrs. Effingham's note as paid and then took down from the top of his roll-top desk the bundle of beautifully engraved securities given him by Mr. Tutt. Badger watched him greedily.

“Thank you,” he gurgled, stuffing them into his pocket. “Much obliged for your courtesy. Perhaps you would like me to open an account here?”

“Oh, anybody can open an account who wants to,” remarked Mr. McKeever dryly, turning away from him to something else.

Mr. Badger fairly flew back to his office. The exquisite blonde had hardly ever before seen him exhibit so much agitation.

“What have you pulled this time?” she inquired dreamily. “Father's daguerreotype and the bracelet of mother's hair?”

“I've grabbed off the whole bag of tricks!” he cried. “Look at 'em! We've not seen so much of the real stuff in six months.

“Ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-By gad!-sixty-seventy!”

“What are they?” asked Mabel curiously. “Some bonds-what?”

“I should say so!” he retorted gaily. “Say, girlie, I'll give you the swellest meal of your young life to-night! Chicago Water Front and Terminal, Great Lakes and Canadian Southern, Mohawk and Housatonic, Bluff Creek and Iowa Central. 'Oh, Mabel!'“