e time" been a
customer of the bank, and none of the officials would probably take the
trouble to ascertain how very brief, in fact, my acquaintance had been.

I left London by the night mail from Victoria Station for Paris, the
first of many hurried trips I took to the Continent on the business we
had entered upon. Truly, we worked hard, spent money lavishly, brought
all our power and genius to work--for what? To have the lightning fall
on us.

Upon my arrival I drove at once to the Hotel Bristol, Place Vendome, a
swell hotel, where none but the great sirs o' the earth could afford to
stop.

Here I registered as F. A. Warren, London, and at once sent off the
following letter:

P. M. Francis, Esq., Manager Bank of England, London.

Dear Sir: I am a customer of the bank, therefore I take the liberty
of troubling you in the hope to have the benefit of your advice.

Will you kindly inform me what good 4 per cent. stocks are to be
had in the market, also if the bank will transact the business for
me? I remain very truly yours,

F. A. WARREN.

By return mail came a letter wherein I was advised to invest in India 4
per cents or London Gas. I wrote an immediate order to have the bank
purchase ten thousand pounds of India stock and sent my check for that
amount, on his own bank, payable to the order of the manager. I received
the stock, instantly sold it, and replaced the money to my credit, and
the next day sent off an order for ten thousand pounds gas stock, and
repeated the operation until I had made the impression I wanted to make
on the mind of the manager, so that when I returned to London for my
decisive interview and sent in my card he would at once recognize the
name, F. A. Warren, as the multi-millionaire American who had been
sending him ten thousand pound checks from Paris.

All the time of my stay in France I had nothing to do but enjoy myself,
and I entered upon a systematic sightseeing in and around Paris. There
are some strange contrasts in that old town. One day I made one of a
coaching party to Fontainebleau, twenty-one miles from the city. Every
foot of the road there is classic ground, and I had assiduously studied
day by day the history of France. That Paris is France is nearly a
truth, and I had in my mind a tolerably clear view of the history of the
country and of the men who made its history. I was right there on the
scene of the history-making, and I found a