Oliver Harrison stirred him out early one morning and, while the sleepy millionaire was rubbing his eyes and still dodging the bombshell that a dream anarchist had hurled from the pinnacle of a bedpost, urged him in excited, confidential tones to take time by the forelock and prepare for possible breach of promise suits.  Brewster sat on the edge of the bed and listened to diabolical stories of how conscienceless females had fleeced innocent and even godly men of wealth.  From the bathroom, between splashes, he retained Harrison by the year, month, day and hour, to stand between him and blackmail.

The directors of the bank met and adopted resolutions lamenting the death of their late president, passed the leadership on to the first vice-president and speedily adjourned.  The question of admitting Monty to the directory was brought up and discussed, but it was left for Time to settle.

One of the directors was Col.  Prentiss Drew, “the railroad magnate” of the newspapers.  He had shown a fondness for young Mr. Brewster, and Monty had been a frequent visitor at his house.  Colonel Drew called him “my dear boy,” and Monty called him “a bully old chap,” though not in his presence.  But the existence of Miss Barbara Drew may have had something to do with the feeling between the two men.

As he left the directors’ room, on the afternoon of the meeting, Colonel Drew came up to Monty, who had notified the officers of the bank that he was leaving.

“Ah, my dear boy,” said the Colonel, shaking the young man’s hand warmly, “now you have a chance to show what you can do.  You have a fortune and, with judgment, you ought to be able to triple it.  If I can help you in any way, come and see me.”

Monty thanked him.

“You’ll be bored to death by the raft of people who have ways to spend your money,” continued the Colonel.  “Don’t listen to any of them.  Take your time.  You’ll have a new chance to make money every day of your life, so go slowly.  I’d have been rich years and years ago if I’d had sense enough to run away from promoters.  They’ll all try to get a whack at your money.  Keep your eye open, Monty.  The rich young man is always a tempting morsel.  “After a moment’s reflection, he added, “Won’t you come out and dine with us to-morrow night?”

CHAPTER III

MRS. AND MISS GRAY

Mrs. Gray lived in Fortieth Street.  For years Montgomery Brewster had regarded her quiet, old-fashioned home as his own.  The house had once been her grandfather’s, and it was one of the pioneers in that part of the town.  It was there she was born; in its quaint old parlor she was married; and all her girlhood, her brief wedded life, and her widowhood were connected with it.  Mrs. Gray and Montgomery’s mother had been schoolmates and playmates, and their friendship endured.  When old Edwin Peter Brewster looked about for a place to house his orphaned grandson,