He was never able to tell how it came about, but without seemingly being able to control the action of his hand he had slipped a twenty-dollar bill from the top of the pile into his own pocket. It was an instant's weakness, followed the next instant by repentance. Teddy knew what theft was. He had not, through his father, had so much to do with banks without being fully aware of the sure and pitiless punishment meted out to it. He didn't mean to steal. He was horror-stricken at the act. Quick as a flash his hand went into his pocket again—but Mr. Brunt was back. The thing that could have been done at once had to be deferred.
Looking for a chance to drop the bill to the floor and make restitution by picking it up, it was annoying that Mr. Brunt should give him none. Mr. Brunt seemed possessed by a demon of speed, so quickly had he locked all the piles in the safe, and then locked the cage behind him. Teddy found himself outside with the bill still burning in his pocket.
Even so there were other possibilities. Going to the washroom, he hung on there till Mr. Brunt had gone home. The cage was made of open wire-work. It was a simple thing to slip a bill through one of the interstices. It would be found next morning on the floor and a fresh running-over of accounts would show where it belonged. Mr. Brunt would wonder how he came to be so careless, but with his balance straight he would be satisfied.
But as Teddy reached the cage, there was Doolan, the night watchman. Doolan was an ex-policeman, too old for public office, but equal to sounding an alarm in case the bank was being robbed. He was a friendly soul, and in strolling up to Teddy had no motive beyond asking after the "ould man" and whether or not he had yet found a job. But Teddy suspected that he was being watched. He didn't know but that Doolan might have seen the movement of the hand which snatched the bill from the pile. When he stirred to go homeward, Doolan might clutch him by the neck. It was a strange, new sensation to feel that within a minute, within a few seconds, the law might have its grip on him. Having said good-by to Doolan and turned away, he took the first steps in expectation of a stern command to come back.
It was another strange new sensation to be walking the familiar ways of Broad Street and Wall Street with this strange new consciousness. There were thousands of bright young men and women streaming to electrics, subways, and ferries in the first stages of commuting, and among them he bore a secret mark. Tramping along in the crowd, he felt like a soldier marching with his comrades to the trenches, but knowing himself picked for death. Luckily, his folly was not even now beyond reparation. He would get to the bank early in the morning, discover the cursed bill lying in some artfully chosen corner of the floor, and restore it to Mr. Brunt. All the same, it was a relief to get away from the fear of detection which he felt to be haunting the streets by plunging into the maw of the subway, where his identity was swallowed up.
At this minute, too, in the studio, Hubert Wray was leaning over Jennie Follett's shoulder and placing before her a rough pencil sketch.
"Take it away!" Jennie cried, tearfully. "I don't want to look at it."
"But, Jennie, I only wish you to see how little it involves."
It was a drawing of a nude woman, her hair coiled on the top of her head, sitting very upright in a marble Byzantine chair, her knees pressed together in the manner of the Egyptian cat-goddess. On a level with her face and poised on the tips of her fingers, she held a human skull which she inspected with slanting, mysterious eyes.