“Then open it.”
“I don't think I have a right to.”
“Don't, then!”
“Oh, shut up! I won't open it! I don't know whether to take the account. You don't know anything about this man—”
“You broker fellows make me tired—posing as careful business men. All Robison has to do is to go to any of your branch offices or anybody's branch office, say his name is W. Jones and that he keeps a cigar-store in Hackensack or Flatbush, and your branch manager will never let him get away. And afore-mentioned manager will swear, if you should be so mean as to ask who W. Jones is, that he and W. J. went to school together—known him for years!”
“After all,” said Richards, a trifle defiantly, “there is no reason why I shouldn't do business for Robison that you know of?”
“Not that I know of—but if he buncoes you out of a big wad don't blame me.”
“He is welcome to anything he can make out of us,” smiled Richards, grimly, and Kidder laughed so heartily that the broker looked pleased with himself and his witticism. He rang for the cashier, gave him the one hundred thousand dollars, and had the amount credited to James B. Robison, address unknown.
II
After leaving the office of Richards & Tuttle Mr. James B. Robison went to the Subway station at Wall Street, rode up-town as far as Forty-second Street, walked to Sixth Avenue, took a surface car, jumped off at Forty-eighth, walked to Forty-ninth, waited there for the next car, and, being certain he was not shadowed, rode on to Fifty-sixth Street. He got off, walked north on the avenue and, half-way up the block, paused at the entrance of the employment agency of “Jno. Sniffens, Established 1858.” On the big slate by the door he read that there was wanted a coachman—careful driver; elderly man preferred.