"In two weeks I will know all.

The game is made; once that Jack Witherspoon faces my quondam guardian, I will soon know whether I am to be prince or pauper." It only lacked a quarter of eleven when the silver-haired Somers called Randall Clayton into his wire-screened den, and opened the door of the high-walled private compartment with its ground-glass sides.
"Here's your deposit, an unusually large one, Mr.

Clayton," murmured Somers, awed by the concrete wealth lying before him.

"You can run over the cheques.

The money I will give you an invoice tag for a clean one hundred and fifty thousand.