s?

"My impending marriage to Grace Goodchild, only daughter of Goodchild,
president of the Ketcham National Bank. See that it is well handled.
And, Barrett?"

"Yes, sir?"

"The old people don't relish the idea. She is the most beautiful girl in
New York."

"I've seen her! Pippinissima!" exclaimed Andrew Barrett, heartfully.

"Ten millions," said Hendrik Rutgers, calmly.

"My God!" whispered young Mr. Barrett, New-Yorker.

He meant what he said.

Ten millions!

Mr. Onthemaker, Andrew Barrett, and their faithful phalanx of star space
men who always signed their stuff called in a body on La Touche, the
photographer of the moment.

He refused to give them Miss Goodchild's photograph. He wished his name
used, of course, but he was too sensible to disregard professional
ethics.

"Mr. Rutgers said we could get it," said Andrew Barrett, sternly.

"I must have her permission. Hang it, boys, I am just as anxious as
you--as I can be to do what I can for you. But I don't dare. These swell
people are _queer_!" the photographer explained, aggrievedly.

"I'll call her up myself," said Max Onthemaker, resolutely. "What's the
Goodchild number?"

He went to the telephone and gave the number of his own office in low
tones. Presently he said, loudly enough to be heard by all, "Is this 777
Fifth Avenue?"

He alone heard the answer. He would not lie. He was a lawyer. It was
unnecessary.

"Can I speak with Miss Goodchild? No; _Miss_ Goodchild."

After a judiciously measured pause he spoke again: "Good afternoon. This
is Mr. Onthemaker speaking. Quite well, thank you. I hope you are the
same!... That's good!... Yes, miss, I saw him this morning. The papers
wish to publish your photograph.... I'm sorry, but they say they simply
must!... I am at La Touche's studio.... They doubtless do not do you
justice, but they are the best ever taken of you--... No, I don't think
they can wait for new ones.... One moment, please--"

He held his hand in front of the transmitter so she couldn't hear him
say to La Touche:

"She wants some new ones."

"To-morrow at two," said La Touche.

"Give us the old ones now," chorused the reporters. "We'll publish the
new ones for the wedding."

"I am sorry"--Max again spoke into the telephone--"but they say they
want some now. They'll use the others later.... Which one?... The one
Mr. Rutgers likes?... Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much."

Foreseeing unintelligent incredulity, Mr. Onthemaker