The banking house of Bookham & Sons did not present an illusive nor mysterious appearance.  It was eminently practical and matter of fact; it was obtrusively open and glassy; nobody would have thought of leaving a secret there that would have been inevitably circulated over the counter.  Cass felt an uncomfortable sense of incongruity in himself, in his story, in his treasure, to this temple of disenchanting realism.  With the awkwardness of an embarrassed man he was holding prominently in his hand an envelope containing the ring and advertisement as a voucher for his intrusion, when the nearest clerk took the envelope from his hand, opened it, took out the ring, returned it, said briskly, “T’ other shop, next door, young man,” and turned to another customer.

Cass stepped to the door, saw that “T’other shop” was a pawnbroker’s, and returned again with a flashing eye and heightened color.  “It’s an advertisement I have come to answer,” he began again.

The clerk cast a glance at Cass’s scarf and pin.  “Place taken yesterday—­no room for any more,” he said, abruptly.

Cass grew quite white.  But his old experience in Blazing Star repartee stood him in good stead.  “If it’s your place you mean,” he said coolly, “I reckon you might put a dozen men in the hole you’re rattlin’ round in—­but it’s this advertisement I’m after.  If Bookham isn’t in, maybe you’ll send me one of the grown-up sons.”  The production of the advertisement and some laughter from the bystanders had its effect.  The pert young clerk retired, and returned to lead the way to the bank parlor.  Cass’s heart sank again as he was confronted by a dark, iron-gray man—­in dress, features, speech, and action—­uncompromisingly opposed to Cass—­his ring and his romance.  When the young man had told his story and produced his treasure he paused.  The banker scarcely glanced at it, but said, impatiently: 

“Well, your papers?”

“My papers?”

“Yes.  Proof of your identity.  You say your name is Cass Beard.  Good!  What have you got to prove it?  How can I tell who you are?”

To a sensitive man there is no form of suspicion that is as bewildering and demoralizing at the moment as the question of his identity.  Cass felt the insult in the doubt of his word, and the palpable sense of his present inability to prove it.  The banker watched him keenly but not unkindly.

“Come,” he said at length, “this is not my affair; if you can legally satisfy the lady for whom I am only agent, well and good.  I believe you can; I only warn you that you must.  And my present inquiry was to keep her from losing her time with impostors, a class I don’t think you belong to.  There’s her card.  Good day.”

“MISS MORTIMER.”

It was not the banker’s daughter.  The first illusion of Blazing Star was rudely dispelled.  But the care taken by the capitalist to shield her from imposture indicated a person of wealth.  Of her youth and beauty Cass no longer thought.