The round-bodied salesman broke an appreciative cough in the middle and grew suddenly thoughtful.
"Don't do that, Monty," he urged soberly; "try to take any of the short cuts, I mean. It's the curse of the age; and, if you'll take it from me, your chances are too good—and too dangerous."
The good-looking, athletic young cash-keeper planted in the opposite chair met the salesman's earnest gaze level-eyed.
"Having said that much, you can hardly refuse to say more," he suggested.
"I will say more; a little more, anyway. I've been wanting to say it all the afternoon. My job takes me into nearly every bank in the Middle West, as you know, and I can't very well help hearing a good bit of gossip, Montague. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by assuming that you don't thoroughly know the man you are working under."
The cashier withheld his reply until the Olympian young woman, who was coming out, had stepped into her limousine to be driven away townward. Then he said:
"Mr. Dunham—our president? Oh, yes; I know him very well, indeed."
"I'm afraid you don't."
"I ought to know him," was the guarded assumption. "I've been with him six years, and during that time I have served a turn at every job in the bank up to, and now and then including, Mr. Dunham's own desk."
"Then you can hardly help knowing what people say of him."