ee days." The lie was deliberate,
and even the triple spy believed him.

The long hours crawled away while Randall Clayton resolutely paced
his lonely office. Only the busy under-accountants came in now and
then for a word of directions, and the ticking of the office clock
sounded like the hollow tapping of hammers upon coffin-lids to the
solitary man who was crazed with his loving anxiety to hear from
the woman who now ruled his every thought.

He forgot the absence of Einstein in his eager waiting for some
intelligence of the woman whom he had shielded from the storm. Poor
Madame Raffoni had mumbled some obscure words about "die herz-kranke."

"Heartsick, my God! I am heartsick," cried Randall Clayton. "And,
she may be alone; there may be no one to send."

Clayton tried to recall the last directions which he had given
to the disguised Leah Einstein. All that he could recall was the
murmured pledge, "I will come, I will come!"

The lover's heart told him that Ferris' spies would now follow in
his every movement. He lingered, in a trance of agony, until long
after the parchment-faced Somers had returned from Wall and Broad
Street.

"It was a very quiet election," murmured Somers, who started at the
appearance of the young man's haggard face. He was astonished to
see Clayton lingering there to the confines of darkness.

The faithful old tool of Mammon had crawled back to turn all his
combination knobs and cast a last glance over the rooms into which
his life had grown as the silkworm into its cocoon.

"You must go away, my boy," kindly said old Somers, "you need a
long rest."

"Yes, yes," mournfully replied Clayton, thinking of the five days
of agony before Jack Witherspoon would arrive to run the gauntlet
of the treacherous Ferris. "I must go away--go away--and, have a
long, long rest!"

The old accountant watched his listless steps as he departed. "Head
or heart--which?" he murmured. "That man is in a bad way."

CHAPTER VII.

"THIS MAY BE MY LAST BANK DEPOSIT."

There was an air of supreme content upon the usually impassive face
of Arthur Ferris when he hung the receiver of the public telephone
up upon its hook, at precisely fifteen minutes past three o'clock,
in the office of Taylor's Hotel.

The astonished girl gazed admiringly after the young lawyer, when
he dropped a two-dollar bill into her hand, saying, "Never mind
the change."

"It's my lucky day," murmured Ferris, as he sought