"Hobbs is at the bank with the payroll check, and has just telephoned up. I think you'd better speak to him, sir."
Clark's lips pressed tight and his eyes opened a little. Retracing his steps, he listened to an agitated voice.
"Mr. Brewster states he has no authority to cash this check unless we cover our overdraft. He would like to talk to you."
"Let him."
Again the receiver spoke, while Clark's face grew suddenly very grim.
"I think you'd better come up and see me," he said shortly.
Then he listened. "Very well," he snapped. His features were like a mask. "I'm going down to the bank," he went on dryly to the secretary, "for the first time in his life Mr. Brewster is unable to leave his office and come up to mine when invited."
He drove into St. Marys followed by the glances of every man and woman who caught sight of the erect figure. The town was full of confused and conflicting rumors, but nothing had as yet crystallized. The appearance of Clark in mid afternoon at the door of the bank, thickened the air. It was known that people with whom he did business invariably went to him. Not in years had he been to Brewster. But for all of that he seemed as cheerful as usual, and took off his gray hat to Mrs. Worden with accustomed and somewhat formal urbanity. Inside he found Hobbs, his round, soft face looking unhealthily pallid, and Brewster with his jaw stuck out, a determined expression on his young features.
"Well, what's the trouble?"
"Nothing very serious." Brewster spoke with a pleasant accent, but he was confronting the most difficult hour of his life. "Just this check."
"What about it?"