"Good day, sir. And thank you very much."
"Not at all." And the limp ex-guardian passed unsteadily from the store into the glare of the street.
Mr. Tom Stacy, of the Manhattan Club, half dozing on the veranda of his establishment, was rejoiced to see his old friend Martin Wall crossing the pavement toward him.
"Well, Martin—" he began. And then a look of concern came into his face. "Good lord, man—what ails you?"
Mr. Wall sank like a wet rag to the steps.
"Tom," he said, "a terrible thing has just happened. I was left alone in Ostby and Blake's jewelry shop."
"Alone?" cried Mr. Stacy. "You—alone?"
"Absolutely alone."
Mr. Stacy leaned over.
"Are you leaving town—in a hurry?" he asked.
Gloomily Mr. Wall shook his head.
"He put me on my honor," he complained. "Left me in charge of the shop. Can you beat it? Of course after that, I—well—you know,
