Mr. Williams called up Professor Willetts on the telephone, who said he had given a letter of introduction to George K. Grinnell. He described Grinnell’s appearance, and added that Grinnell had been one of his students, and was quite well up on metallurgy, but was not, so far as the professor knew, engaged in active business. He thought Grinnell had some private means. The Assay Office people had identified Grinnell and his signature. It was not much information, but it was enough.
On the following Thursday, after the close of the business day, Mr. Dawson, reading over some routine memoranda submitted by the cashier, found his gaze arrested by a line that told of the deposit of $151,008 by “George K. Grinnell.” He sent for the cashier.
“What about this $151,000 deposit by George K. Grinnell?” he asked.
“He deposited an Assay Office check, the same as he did last week.”
The president frowned. He was puzzled.
“If he should happen to make any further deposits of this character, tell the receiving teller to say I should like to see him, please.”
“Very well, sir.”
The president turned to his desk again, and promptly forgot the incident—forgot it for exactly one week. On the following Thursday, shortly before noon, Williams, the assistant cashier—a short, stout man, with an oleaginous smile—approached his feared chief.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dawson,”—the assistant cashier’s habitual attitude before the president was one uninterrupted apology for existing at all—“Mr. Grinnell is here.”
“Grinnell? Grinnell?” mused the president, frowning.