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predacious sort, who built nothing, gave nothing and produced only grief and loss, and then moved on, not even possessing the decency to remain and witness the results of their colossal selfishness. Tom Stewart was one of these.
    He arrived at the bank and paused at the front door to ad just his tie and his smile, then stepped confidently inside. This was not a large town and the bank was not a large bank, but the town was beginning to prosper and Willard Deering, the bank manager, was a far-sighted man. He had foreseen this prosperity and built the foundation of his own future on that vision. In his mind he was a good man, religious and active in the community, a man whose integrity no one, not even he himself, doubted. Tom Stewart was laying plans to show Deering another side of his nature.
    Five years previously, at the age of thirty-one, Willard Deering had finally taken a wife; a small, timid girl, eleven years his junior. Shortly afterward, Willard was offered the banking job he now held and they left the small Kansas town where Millie had grown up and moved west. Soon Willard had maneuvered himself into a position of high standing in their new community, while Millie, timid and introverted, was still a stranger to most of the locals. She was seldom in attendance at any of the women’s gatherings, and left the confines of her own home infrequently and usually in the presence of her husband who dominated every conversation. Some people believed Millie lived this life of seclusion by her own choosing, while others believed she did so out of obedience to Willard who ran his household with the same sterile efficiency with which he managed the bank. Some felt that Willard had chosen Millie for her dimness of personality, in order that his own might glow the brighter by contrast.
    The couple had remained childless during their five years of marriage —a fact that did not seem to matter to Willard, and no one in town was intimate enough with Millie to discuss such matters.
    Tom Stewart wore his most winning smile as he stepped into the bank, and Deering did the same immediately upon recognizing Stewart. Neither smile was sincere.
    “How are you this morning my friend?” asked Stewart, extending his hand.
    Deering grasped the hand firmly with both hands. “Just fine, just fine and how are you Tom?”
    “Couldn ’t be better.”
    A casual observer would have thought this to be a meeting between two close friends, but each man was playing the same game. Each saw in the other someone who could help him achieve his own ends. The difference between the two was that Stewart knew Deering was playing a game, while Deering was ignorant of Stewart’s insincerity. This knowledge gave Stewart a decided advantage and he knew it. “How’s the banking business?” he asked.
    “Very good, Tom,” replied Deering, replacing his smil e with an earnest expression. “This town is growing like a weed. I anticipate we’ll double our deposits in the next twelve months.”
    “That ’s good news, Willard.”  Stewart paused for a moment and his face assumed the expression of a man on the verge of making a decision. His brow was deeply furrowed and he stroked his chin pensively.
    Deering did not know what th is was about, but he sensed it could be important to him, and for a moment he stood frozen, intently watching Stewart’s face, hands on hips, body bent a little at the waist until he realized how he must look.
    He straightened his body and said, “Would you like to come back to my office Tom?”
    “Yes, yes, thank you.” Stewart was pleased. He had never been invited into Deering’s private office, and he noted with satisfaction Deering’s obsequious manner.
    The office was what he had expected: small, unattractive and perfectly ordered.
    Deering offered him a chair opposite the desk, sat in his own behind the desk and waited for Stewart to speak first. He could tell by Stewart’s expression that the man had not resolved the