XVIt was strange how many circumstances could combine to hedge in Murray Van Rensselaer’s pathway so that there was no way of escape.
They led him into the mahogany-lined cage with its bronze bars at the little window, and inducted him into the mysteries of the duty of a bank teller, and he was fascinated. It was like a new game. He always was dead to the world for a time when he met with a new form of amusement. They never could get him to pay attention to anything else until he had followed out its intricacies and become master of its technique. And this playing with crisp new bills of fascinating denominations, and coins in a tray of little compartments, was the best he had ever tried. Poker chips and Mah Jong tiles weren’t in it for interest. These were real. They suddenly seemed the
