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 at sight of them, and helped him pick them up, in spite of his polite remonstrances. He was very fussily annoyed by his own clumsiness, and he crammed the bills into his trousers pocket with no appearance of respect for their value.

She asked: “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cook? You say you have a letter of introduction to me?”

“I have, m’am,” he said, “if I can find it.”

“From whom?”

“From your friend Mr. Wallbridge.” He was going through the envelopes from his breast pocket, for the second time.

“Wallbridge?”

“Of Chicago. Charles J. Wallbridge. Yes, ’m.”

She seemed puzzled. “I don’t—recall the name.”

“Here! I have it.” He handed the letter to her with an air of triumph.

She read it. She re-read it. And it was evident, during the second reading, that she