CHAPTER XXIII
THE COMMITTEE OF SAFETY
I came out of the bank from my morning visit in a daze of emotions. The street was thronged with hurrying crowds. The air was electric with the tension of social storm. The echoes of the mob's outburst could be heard in the indignant comments that passed from mouth to mouth; the fears that it inspired could be read in the tense lines that it had written on men's faces. But it was all one to me. I saw and I saw not. I heard and I heard not. I walked the street stunned, overwhelmed with the conviction that an irreparable blunder had snatched the control of events from my hands, and doomed Wharton Kendrick to swift and certain ruin.
I had found the president of the Golconda Bank in his private office at a few minutes after nine o'clock, and Wharton Kendrick's card had secured me prompt admission. I had known the president slightly for several years, and he received me with brusk kindness as I stated my errand and exhibited my credentials.
"Oh, we'll arrange that for you in two minutes," he said, after he had examined my papers, and questioned me on Wharton Kendrick's condition. "Just indorse that check, and I'll have the account put in your name."
When he had sent his messenger to the cashier with his directions, he continued:
"That is a heavy responsibility you have on your shoulders to-day. There is plenty of trouble ahead. We look to the syndicate to do the work of a commercial fire-patrol." And he favored me with a few words of advice for which I professed myself grateful. He was still giving counsel, when the cashier reappeared with a troubled face.
"There's something wrong about this," he said, laying my check before the president.
"That is Kendrick's signature," said the president, scrutinizing it once more.
"But look at the figures," urged the cashier.