Richards, a man of fifty, fastidiously dressed, but relieved from even the implication of foppishness by a look in his eyes at once shrewd and humorous, said, with a smile, “Well, he certainly has enough letters to be anything, even a rich man.”
“Funny letters of introduction,” said the cashier—“all sealed and—” His jaw dropped. That made him cease talking.
Mr. Richards had taken from the first envelope not a letter, but a ten-thousand-dollar gold certificate!
The cashier closed his mouth with a click. “What the—!” he muttered.
“Next!” said George B. Richards, cheerfully. He opened envelope number two and pulled out another ten-thousand-dollar bill. One after another he opened the letters until he had laid in a neat pile on his desk ten ten-thousand-dollar notes.
“The letters of introduction are from the Treasury Department,” said Richards, laughing. “Now let us see whom the card is from.”
“I don't care whom the card is from. I know the man is crazy,” said Gourley, in the defiant tone of one who expects not logic, but contradiction. “It is as plain as the nose on your face.”
“Maybe they are counterfeit,” teased Richards; he knew they were not.
The cashier snatched one from the desk, looked at the vignette of Jackson, and examined the back. “It's good,” he said, gloomily.
Richards opened the eleventh envelope and took out a card.