The Brand of Silence. Harrington Strong

over for a fellow who had some money. That made me huffy, of course. I swore I'd shake the dust of New York from my shoes, go to some foreign country, take with me the ten thousand dollars I had saved, and turn it into a million."

      "And came back broke!" Farland said.

      "Nothing of the sort, Jim. I came back with a million."

      "Great Scott! I suppose I'd better be on my way then. I ain't in the habit of having millionaires let me associate with 'em."

      "You sit where you are, or I'll use violence!" Prale told him. "I suppose you are still on the force? Still fussing around down in the financial district watching for swindlers?"

      "I left the force three years ago," Jim Farland replied. "Couldn't seem to get ahead. Too honest, maybe—or too ignorant. I'm in a sort of private detective business now—got an office up the street. Doing fairly well, too—lots of old friends give me work. If you have anything in my line——"

      "If I have, you'll get a job," said Prale.

      "Let me slip you a card," said Farland. "You never know when you may need a detective. So you came back with a million, eh?"

      "And ran into a mess," Prale added.

      "I can't imagine a man with a million running into much of a mess," Farland said.

      "That's all you know about it. I may need your services sooner than you think. There is a sort of jinx working on me, it appears."

      "Spill it!" Jim Farland said.

      Sidney Prale did. He related what had happened at the bank, at the hotel, in Griffin's office, and told of the scene with Rufus Shepley.

      "Funny!" Farland said, when he had finished. "I know old Rufus Shepley, and as a general thing he ain't a maniac. Something behind all this, Sid."

      "Yes; but what on earth could it be?"

      "That's the question. If anything else happens, and you need help, just let me know."

      "I'll do that, surely," said Prale. "And I'm glad that I've got one friend left in town."

      "Always have one as long as I'm here," Jim Farland assured him. "And it ain't because of your million, either. It's true about the million?"

      "Absolutely!"

      "Gee! That's more than old Griffin himself has in cash, anyway," Farland declared. "Maybe it's a good thing that girl turned you down. You'd probably be a clerk at a few thousand a year, if she hadn't. How'd you make the coin?"

      "Mines and fruit and water power and logs," said Prale.

      "Sounds simple enough. When the detective business goes on the blink, I may take a turn at it myself."

      "If you ever need money, Jim, call on me. If you want to engage bigger offices, hire operatives, branch out——"

      "Stop it!" Farland cried. "I want nothing of the kind. I'm a peculiar sort of duck—don't care about being rich at all. I just want to be sure I'll have a good living for myself and the wife and kids, and have a few friends, and be able to look every man in town straight in the eye. I'd rather work for a friend for nothing than do work I don't like for ten thousand an hour."

      "I believe you!" Prale said.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

THE COUSIN

       Table of Contents

      An hour later, having parted with Detective Jim Farland, Sidney Prale walked slowly up Fifth Avenue, determined to go to his hotel suite and rest for the remainder of the evening. His conversation and short visit with Farland had put him in a better humor. There was no mistaking the quality of Farland's friendship. He and Prale had been firm friends ten years before, when Farland was on duty in the financial district, and they had made it a point at that time to eat luncheon together when Farland's duties permitted.

      New York seemed a better place, even with one friend among several million persons. So Prale swung his stick jauntily, and hummed the Spanish love song again, and told himself that Rufus Shepley and Kate Gilbert, old Griffin and the hotel manager and the rest of the motley crew that had made the day miserable for him amounted to nothing in the broader scheme of things, and were not to be taken seriously.

      He came to a block where there were few pedestrians, where the great shops had their lights out and their night curtains up. He heard steps behind him, and presently a soft voice.

      "Sid! Sid!"

      Sidney Prale whirled around, alert and on guard, for he did not recognize the voice. A medium-sized man stood before him, a man of about his own age, who had a furtive manner and wore a beard.

      "Don't you know me, Sid?"

      "Can't say that I do!"

      "Why, I'm your cousin, George Lerton. I'm the only relative you've got in the world, unless you got married while you were away."

      Prale stepped aside so that the nearest light flashed on the face of the man before him.

      "Well, if it isn't!" he said. "Didn't recognize you at first. How long have you been wearing the alfalfa on your face?"

      "Two or three years," George Lerton told him, grinning a bit. "I saw your name in the passenger list, Sid, and wanted to see you. I found out where you are stopping——"

      "Why didn't you come to the hotel, then, or leave a note?" Prale asked. "Come on up now."

      "I—I wanted to talk to you——"

      "And I want to talk to you. What are you doing for yourself, George? Still working in a broker's office?"

      "Oh, I've got an office of my own now."

      "Getting along all right?"

      "Fairly well," Lerton said. "Business has been pretty good the last year."

      "Maybe you can dig up a few good investments for me, then," Prale said. "I've got some coin now."

      "I understand that you're worth a million, Sid."

      "Yes, I've made my pile, and came back to New York to enjoy it. But come along to the hotel."

      "I'd—I'd rather not."

      "Why not? We've got to talk over old times and find out about each other. We're cousins, you know."

      The truth of the matter was that Sidney Prale never had thought very much of his cousin. Ten years before they had worked side by side for Griffin, the broker. There was something furtive and shifty about George Lerton, but he never had presumed on his relationship, at least. He and Sidney Prale had been courteous to each other, but never had been warm friends.

      They came from different branches of the family. Lerton had some traits of character that Prale did not admire, but he always told himself that perhaps he was prejudiced. They had seen a deal of each other in a social way in the old days.

      "Let us just talk as we walk along," Lerton now said.

      "All right, if you have an engagement," Prale replied. "We can get together later, I suppose. How have the years been using you? Married?"

      "I was—I am a widower."

      "Sorry," said Prale. "Children?"

      "No—not any children. I—I married Mary Slade."

      "What?" Prale cried.

      He stopped, aghast. Mary Slade had been the girl who had turned him down for a man with money—and that man had not been George Lerton, who did not have as much as five thousand