"There he is, Myra—that's him!" and pointed toward the sidewalk.
"Whom?" enquired Mrs. Isham, calmly.
"Why John Merrick! John Merrick, of Portland, Oregon."
"And who is John Merrick?" asked the lady.
"One of the richest men in the world, and the best client our house has. Isn't he a queer looking fellow? And dresses like a tramp. But he's worth from eighty to ninety millions, at least, and controls most of the canning and tin-plate industries of America. I wonder what brought him into this neighborhood?"
Louise drew back from the window, pale and trembling. Then she caught up a shawl and rushed from the room. Uncle John must be overtaken and brought back, at all hazards.
The elevator was coming down, fortunately, and she descended quickly and reached the street, where she peered eagerly up and down for the round, plump figure of the little millionaire. But by some strange chance he had already turned a corner and disappeared.
While she hesitated the young man came briskly up, swinging his cane.
"Why, Miss Louise," he said in some surprise, "were you, by good chance, waiting for me?"
"No, indeed," she answered, with a laugh; "I've been saying good-bye to my rich uncle, John Merrick, of Portland, who has just called."