"He hasn't," maintained Whipple. "Knapp is as close to him as any man in San Francisco."
The cashier squirmed, but said nothing.
"But outside the bank. Who were his associates?"
"Don't think he had any," from Knapp.
"Relatives?"
"None—I know he hadn't."
"Girls? Lord! Didn't he have a girl?"
"Not a girl."
"No associates—no girl? For the love of Mike, what could such a man intend to do with all that money?" I gasped. "Where did he spend his time when he wasn't in the bank?"
Whipple looked at his cashier for an answer. But Knapp was sitting, head down, in a painful brown study, and the president himself began haltingly.