in, showing an offended mien at his
impetuosity.
"He's
at supper, sir," she said disapprovingly. "If you'll have
the patience to seat yourself just a few minutes and wait till he
gets through--"
"No
matter," he panted. "This can't wait! Ask him to come out
here a moment--"
The
banker came out into the hall, brow beetling with annoyance, still
chewing food and with a napkin still trussed about his collar. When
he saw who it was his face cleared.
"Mr.
Durand!" he said heartily. "What brings you here at such an
hour? Will you come in and join us at table?" Then noting his
distracted appearance more closely as he came nearer, "You're
all upset-- What's the matter, man? Bring him some brandy, Becky. A
chair--"
Durand
swept a curt hand offside in refusal of the offered restoratives. "My
money--" he gasped out.
"What
is it, Mr. Durand? What of your money?"
"Is
it there--? Has it been touched--? When you closed at three, what was
my balance on your ledgers-?"
"I
don't understand you, Mr. Durand. No one can touch your money. It's
safeguarded. No one but yourself and your wife-"
He
caught an inkling of something from the agonized expression that had
flitted across Durand's face just then.
"You
mean--?" he breathed, appalled.
"I
have to know-- Now, tonight-- For the love of God, Mr. Simms, do
something for me, help me-- Don't keep me waiting like this-"
The
banker wrenched off his napkin, cast it from him, in sign his meal
was ended for that evening at least. "My chief teller," he
said in quick-formed decision. "My chief teller would know. That
would be quicker than going tO the bank; we'd have to open up and go
over the day's transactions-"
"Where
can I find him?" Durand was already on his way toward the door
and out again.
"No,
no, I'll go with you. Wait for me just a second--" Simms
hurriedly snatched at his hat and a silken throat muffler. "What
is it, what has happened, Mr. Durand?"
"I'm
afraid to say, until I find out," Durand said desolately. "I'm
afraid even to think--"
Simms
had to stop first and secure his teller's home address; then they
hurriedly left, climbed back into the same carriage that had brought
Durand, and were driven to a frugal little squeezed-in house on
Dumaine Street.
Simms
got out, deterred Durand with a kindly intended gesture of his hand,
evidently hoping to spare him as much as possible.
"Suppose
you wait here. I'll go in and talk to him."
He
went inside to be gone perhaps ten minutes at the most. To Durand it
seemed he had been left out there the whole night.
At
last the door opened and Simms had reappeared. Durand leaped, as
though a spring had been released, to meet him, trying to read his
face for the tidings as he went toward him. It looked none too
sanguine.
"What
is it? For God's sake, tell me!"
"Steady,
Mr. Durand, steady." Simms put a supporting arm about him just
below the turn of the shoulders. "You had thirty thousand,
fifty-one dollars, forty cents in your check-cashing account and
twenty thousand and ten in your savings account this morning when we
opened for business--"
"I
know that! I know that already! That isn't what I want to know--"
The
teller had followed Simms out. The manager gestured to him
surreptitiously, handing over to him the unwelcome responsibility of
answering the question.
"Your
wife appeared at five minutes of three to make a lastminute
withdrawal," the teller said.
"Your
balance at closing-time was fifty-one dollars, forty cents in the one
account, ten dollars in the other. To have closed them both out
entirely, your own signature would have been necessary."
20
The
room was a still life. It might have been something painted on a
canvas, that was then stood upright to dry; life-size, identical to
life in every shading and every trifling detail, yet an artful
simulation and not the original itself.
A
window haloed by setting sunlight, as if there were a brush fire
burning just outside of it, kindling, with its glare, the ceiling and
the
impetuosity.
"He's
at supper, sir," she said disapprovingly. "If you'll have
the patience to seat yourself just a few minutes and wait till he
gets through--"
"No
matter," he panted. "This can't wait! Ask him to come out
here a moment--"
The
banker came out into the hall, brow beetling with annoyance, still
chewing food and with a napkin still trussed about his collar. When
he saw who it was his face cleared.
"Mr.
Durand!" he said heartily. "What brings you here at such an
hour? Will you come in and join us at table?" Then noting his
distracted appearance more closely as he came nearer, "You're
all upset-- What's the matter, man? Bring him some brandy, Becky. A
chair--"
Durand
swept a curt hand offside in refusal of the offered restoratives. "My
money--" he gasped out.
"What
is it, Mr. Durand? What of your money?"
"Is
it there--? Has it been touched--? When you closed at three, what was
my balance on your ledgers-?"
"I
don't understand you, Mr. Durand. No one can touch your money. It's
safeguarded. No one but yourself and your wife-"
He
caught an inkling of something from the agonized expression that had
flitted across Durand's face just then.
"You
mean--?" he breathed, appalled.
"I
have to know-- Now, tonight-- For the love of God, Mr. Simms, do
something for me, help me-- Don't keep me waiting like this-"
The
banker wrenched off his napkin, cast it from him, in sign his meal
was ended for that evening at least. "My chief teller," he
said in quick-formed decision. "My chief teller would know. That
would be quicker than going tO the bank; we'd have to open up and go
over the day's transactions-"
"Where
can I find him?" Durand was already on his way toward the door
and out again.
"No,
no, I'll go with you. Wait for me just a second--" Simms
hurriedly snatched at his hat and a silken throat muffler. "What
is it, what has happened, Mr. Durand?"
"I'm
afraid to say, until I find out," Durand said desolately. "I'm
afraid even to think--"
Simms
had to stop first and secure his teller's home address; then they
hurriedly left, climbed back into the same carriage that had brought
Durand, and were driven to a frugal little squeezed-in house on
Dumaine Street.
Simms
got out, deterred Durand with a kindly intended gesture of his hand,
evidently hoping to spare him as much as possible.
"Suppose
you wait here. I'll go in and talk to him."
He
went inside to be gone perhaps ten minutes at the most. To Durand it
seemed he had been left out there the whole night.
At
last the door opened and Simms had reappeared. Durand leaped, as
though a spring had been released, to meet him, trying to read his
face for the tidings as he went toward him. It looked none too
sanguine.
"What
is it? For God's sake, tell me!"
"Steady,
Mr. Durand, steady." Simms put a supporting arm about him just
below the turn of the shoulders. "You had thirty thousand,
fifty-one dollars, forty cents in your check-cashing account and
twenty thousand and ten in your savings account this morning when we
opened for business--"
"I
know that! I know that already! That isn't what I want to know--"
The
teller had followed Simms out. The manager gestured to him
surreptitiously, handing over to him the unwelcome responsibility of
answering the question.
"Your
wife appeared at five minutes of three to make a lastminute
withdrawal," the teller said.
"Your
balance at closing-time was fifty-one dollars, forty cents in the one
account, ten dollars in the other. To have closed them both out
entirely, your own signature would have been necessary."
20
The
room was a still life. It might have been something painted on a
canvas, that was then stood upright to dry; life-size, identical to
life in every shading and every trifling detail, yet an artful
simulation and not the original itself.
A
window haloed by setting sunlight, as if there were a brush fire
burning just outside of it, kindling, with its glare, the ceiling and
the
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