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 of the great union of banks known as the New Republic. He was a man nearing seventy. In the good old days of piratical finance he had been thought rather moderate, but in regenerate modern times he was sometimes spoken of as "one of the old gang."

"Oh, well," he was thinking, as he read some particularly unmeaning phrase about the decline of values, "if a fellow like that really knew anything, he'd be in the Street and not in a newspaper office," when a footman came in with a card.

Mr. Johns scowled over his spectacles—that scowl was one of his greatest business assets; he had also a priceless grunt which was considered terrifying in the extreme. He read the card and grunted.

"Who the devil is Mr. Austin Bevans? Who is he?"

The footman, though an excellent mimic, and able to do both the scowl and the grunt to perfection in the kitchen, had his nerves—like other artists. He murmured something unintelligible, and Mr. Johns roared:

"What is it? What do you say? I can't hear you."

Steadying himself, the footman explained that it was a young man who said he had