As they emerged into the outer room, he glanced furtively and nervously at Armstrong; Armstrong seemed safely absorbed in his dictation. Just as the two reached the hall door, Armstrong, without looking up, called, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Westervelt—just a moment."
Westervelt jumped. "Go on with the books," said he in an undertone to his secretary. "I'll come directly."
Armstrong was looking at the secretary now. "Just put down the package, please," he said carelessly. "I wish to speak to the comptroller about it."
The young man, all unsuspicious of what was below the smooth surface, obediently put down the package. Armstrong drew Westervelt aside. "You are taking those three books, and the one I see bulging in your pocket, down to Mr. Fosdick, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Westervelt.
"Take my advice," said Armstrong. "Don't."
"It's merely a little matter I wish to go over with him—a few minutes," stammered Westervelt.
"I understand perfectly," said Armstrong. "But is it wise for you to put yourself in anybody's power? Don't hand all your weapons to a man who could use them against you—and, as you well know, would do it if he felt compelled. I could stop you from making off with those books. I'm tempted to do it—curiously enough, for your own sake. I don't need them."
Westervelt was studying Armstrong's frank countenance in amazement. "He expects me," he suggested uncertainly.
"Don't leave the books with him," repeated Armstrong. "Don't put yourself in his power." He looked at Westervelt with an expression like that of a man measuring a leap before taking it. "Take the books home," he went on boldly. "Fosdick has been cheating you for years. I will come to see you at your house to-morrow morning." And he returned to his dictation, leaving the old man hesitating in the doorway, thoughtfully fumbling in his long white whiskers with slow, stealthy fingers.