“Will you allow me to call upon you at your home?  This is the request of a man who was once a gentleman, but who, through the bitterness of disappointment, had lost faith in all things holy.”

The letter was signed “Cornelius C. Deering.”

Faith read it over and over—­the signature was in a measure familiar, but just at that time she could not place it.

As she tucked the letter in her pocket, Mr. Gunning approached the counter.  He was twirling his mustache with his coarse, blunt fingers, and there was a superciliousness in his manner that was almost disgusting.

“Perhaps you are not aware, Number 411, that we don’t allow that sort of thing here,” he said in a loud tone.  “If you must have such improper notes from men, please see that they are not delivered during business hours.  I can’t have you wasting time in reading letters!”

For a moment the floor seemed sinking beneath Faith’s feet, but it was not altogether from the effect of his words—­it was the shock of finding out that Miss Jones was treacherous.

For a moment it seemed incomprehensible that she should have repeated her remark, but how else could the floor-walker have guessed that her letter was either from a “man” or “improper”?

She almost bit her tongue in her effort to keep silent, and at first she was even tempted to show the fellow the letter.

“It was not my fault that the letter came to me here,” she said finally.  “Believe me, Mr. Gunning, it would not have happened if I could have prevented it.”

“Oh, of course, you can’t help men writing love letters to you,” said the fellow, impudently; “but if I see any more of them I shall report it to Mr. Gibson!  Our rules are very strict.  There is to be no flirting in the building!”

Faith would have liked to ask him why he did not stop James Denton from flirting in the store, and why the detectives were not punished for their villainous efforts in behalf of outsiders, as well as a dozen more questions, some of which would have included his own department, but she was far too wise to risk such a venture.

When Mr. Gunning walked away, Miss Jones came up to her.  There was a sneer on her face while her eyes twinkled with amusement.

“How could you be so mean as to tell him?” Faith asked, breathlessly.  “You saw how distressed I was; why could you not respect my feelings?”

“Oh, I guess you didn’t feel so bad as you try to make out,” said Miss Jones, snappishly.  “Girls that make friends with men who keep nigger servants ain’t always as green as they look, you know!  Sometimes they are worse than those who ain’t so smooth or so clever!”

“You are as insulting as he was,” said Faith, very gravely.  “I am disappointed in you, Miss Jones.  I though you were more friendly.”

“Well, who cares what you thought?” was the heartless answer.  “I’m not to blame if you took me for a fool!  Why, even Mag Brady could see through your sly actions!”