G.Field Catherwood.
Walking quickly and softly across the floor to the private office, which opened off from the other end of the counter, the prospective partner of the business stooped down, turned the shining knob of the safe round until the right combination had been struck, and swung back the immense, massive door.

Then from an inner drawer he drew the merchant's bank-book, in which were clasped several hundred dollars in bills.

Two of the largest denomination--fifty each--were withdrawn, and the book returned to its place.
No veteran could have been cooler than Catherwood.

He looked and acted no more like the exquisite on the steamboat than did Tom Gordon himself.

He was the sleek, cunning, hypocritical villain he had always been, stealing, not because he was in need of money, but because it was his nature to do so.
"_Well, Mr.Catherwood, it looks as if the account will be a little short to-morrow_!" The miscreant started as if he had heard the warning of a rattlesnake at his feet.