THE KNICKERBOCKER BANK.
Richard Dunlap was a man who had never missed a train nor been late in keeping an appointment. On the morning following Sprague's dinner party, he walked briskly down Broadway from City Hall. It was New Year's day; the great thoroughfare was deserted. As he turned into Wall Street, the hands of the clock in Trinity steeple pointed to three minutes of nine. The financier pulled out his chronometer, found that the clock in the old belfry was right, and quickened his pace.
Wall Street slumbered peacefully and silently, like a battle-field after the roar of the cannon has been hushed, after the victors and the vanquished have disappeared, leaving behind them only the ghosts of the slain. The deathlike stillness was oppressive.
At last, as Dunlap reached the Knickerbocker bank, the clock in the belfry struck the hour. The reporter was not there. The banker uttered an ejaculation of annoyance. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. He resolved to give Sturgis five minutes grace, and began to pace back and forth before the entrance to the bank. Then a thought struck him. There was another entrance on Exchange Place—that generally used by the employés and officials. Perhaps the reporter was waiting there. Dunlap walked around to Exchange Place and glanced up the street. He saw a man standing in the gutter and bending low over the curb. Dunlap advanced so as to obtain a front view of him and recognized Sturgis. The reporter had not noticed his approach; he held a magnifying glass in his hand and seemed deeply interested in a minute examination of the smooth-worn curb.
"Good morning, Mr. Sturgis," said the banker, "have you lost something?"
The reporter looked up quietly.
"No, Mr. Dunlap; I have found something;—something which may possibly prove to be a hyphen."
"A what?" asked the banker, perplexed.
"A hyphen connecting two parts of a very pretty little puzzle."
Dunlap stared curiously at the curb.