Alcatrante smiled genially. “Since Mr. Bixby is absent,” he remarked, “shall we leave the verification of the notes until to-morrow?”
“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Orme.
“Why”—Alcatrante’s face was the picture of astonishment—“the Wallingham Company notes, of course. The notes you wish to sell me.” His voice was raised so that the girl behind the window could not help hearing.
“Rot!” said Orme.
“What?” A note of indignation crept into Alcatrante’s voice. “Are you evading? Perhaps you thought I would not insist on the verification.” Another clerk, a man, had joined the girl behind the window. Alcatrante suddenly addressed him. “This Mr. Orme told me that he needed to raise money and would transfer to me cheap some notes signed by your company. I met him at the hotel. He said that, if I would come here with him, he would show the notes and have them verified. I don’t understand.”
The clerk left the window and, opening a door, came into the reception-room. “What are the notes you have?” he asked.
“I have none,” replied Orme, in disgust. “I have never pretended to have any. This man is crazy, I think.” He pointed to Alcatrante. “He has followed me here uninvited for reasons of his own. I asked for Mr. Bixby, whom I know. I would have asked for Mr. Wallingham, my personal friend, but that I had already learned of his being at Arradale.”
“There’s funny business here somewhere,” exclaimed Alcatrante, with great earnestness. “Do you mean to say that you did not introduce yourself to me in the lobby of the Framington and ask me to buy the notes?”
Orme did not answer.
With a conservative eye the clerk looked at the two. He was not one to involve himself in a dubious affair.