“Gracious!” cried Mrs. Effingham, her eyes lighting with astonishment.  “Wherever did you get them?  And such exquisite pictures!  Look at that lamb!”

“It ought to have been a wolf!” muttered Mr. Tutt.  “Well, Mrs. Effingham, I’ve decided to make you a present—­just a few pounds of Chicago Water Front and Canadian Southern—­those over there in that pile; and now if you say so we’ll just go along to your bank.”

“Give them to me!” she protested.  “What on earth for?  You’re joking, Mr. Tutt.”

“Not a bit of it!” he retorted.  “I don’t make any pretensions as to the value of my gift, but they’re yours for whatever they’re worth.”

He wrapped them carefully in a piece of paper and returned the balance to Doc Barrows’ dress-suit case.

“Aren’t you afraid to leave them that way?” she asked, surprised.

“Not at all!  Not at all!” he laughed.  “You see there are fortunes lying all about us everywhere if we only know where to look.  Now the first thing to do is to get your bonds back from the bank.”

Mr. Thomas McKeever, the popular loan clerk of the Mustardseed National, was just getting ready for the annual visit of the state bank examiner when Mr. Tutt, followed by Mrs. Effingham, entered the exquisitely furnished boudoir where lady clients were induced by all modern conveniences except manicures and shower baths to become depositors.  Mr. Tutt and Mr. McKeever belonged to the same Saturday evening poker game at the Colophon Club, familiarly known as The Bible Class.

“Morning, Tom,” said Mr. Tutt.  “This is my client, Mrs. Effingham.  You hold her note, I believe, for ten thousand dollars secured by some government bonds.  She has a use for those bonds and I thought that you might be willing to take my indorsement instead.  You know I’m good for the money.”

“Why, I guess we can accommodate her, Mr. Tutt!” answered the Chesterfieldian Mr. McKeever.  “Certainly we can.  Sit down, Mrs. Effingham, while I send for your bonds.  See the morning paper?”

Mrs. Effingham blushingly acknowledged that she had not seen the paper.  In fact, she was much too excited to see anything.

“Sign here!” said the loan clerk, placing the note before the lawyer.

Mr. Tutt indorsed it in his strange, humpbacked chirography.

“Here are your bonds,” said Mr. McKeever, handing Mrs. Effingham a small package in a manila envelope.  She took them in a half-frightened way, as if she thought she was doing something wrong.

“And now,” said Mr. Tutt, “the lady would like a box in your safe-deposit vaults; a small one—­about five dollars a year—­will do.  She has quite a bundle of securities with her, which I am looking into.  Most if not all of them are of little or no value, but I have told her she might just as well leave them as security for what they are worth, in addition to my indorsement.  Really it’s just a slick game of ours to get the bank to look after them for nothing.  Isn’t it, Mrs. Effingham?”