Millions and a Mite

That modesty about having his name appear in public on a check seemed to
attach to the business habits of Mr. Marston.

Mighty few person were ever admitted to this inner sanctuary where
Bradish sat facing his employer across the flat-topped desk. And men who
saw that employer outside his office did not turn their heads to stare
after him or point respectful finger at him or remark to somebody else,
"There's the big Julius Marston." In the first place, Mr. Marston was
not big in a physical sense, and there was nothing about him which would
attract attention or cause him to be remarked in a crowd. And only a few
persons really knew him, anyway.

He sat in his massive chair; one hand propped on the arm, his elbow
akimbo, and with the other hand plucked slowly at the narrow strip of
beard which extended from his lower lip to the peaked end of his chin.

"Very well, Mr. Bradish," he remarked, after the latter had lifted the
blotter from the check.

Bradish rose and bowed, and started to leave. He was a tall and shapely
young man, with a waist, with a carriage. His garb was up-to-the-minute
fashion--repressed. He was a study in brown, as to fabric of attire and
its accessories. One of those white-faced chaps who always look a bit
bored, with a touch of up-to-date cynicism! One of those fellows who
listen much and who say little!