Starratt could easily have lied and closed the incident quickly, but an illogical pride stirred him to the truth.
"No," he returned, quietly, "I'm simply short. We're having some company in for dinner and there are a few things to get—cigars and—well, you know what."
Wetherbee threw him a lip-curling glance. "Cigars? Well, twopenny clerks do keep up a pretty scratch and no mistake. In my day—"
Starratt cut him short with an impatient gesture.
"Times have changed, Mr. Wetherbee."
"Yes, I should say they have," the elder man sneered, as he reached for the key to the cash drawer.
For a moment Starratt felt an enormous relief at the old man's significant movement. He was to get the money, after all! But almost at once he was moved to sudden resentment. What right had Wetherbee to humiliate him before everybody within earshot? He knew that the eyes of the entire force were being leveled at him, and he felt a surge of satisfaction as he said, very distinctly:
"Don't bother, Mr. Wetherbee… It really doesn't make the slightest difference. I'll manage somehow."
Old Wetherbee shrugged and went on adding figures. Starratt felt confused. The whole scene had fallen flat. His suave heroics had not even made Wetherbee feel cheap. He went back to his desk.
Presently a hand rested upon his shoulder. He knew Brauer's fawning, almost apologetic, touch. He turned.