It was quite dark, too dark for either to distinguish the other's features—and Jimmie Dale's hat was drawn far down over his eyes.
“I want to see Mr. Thomas H. Carling, cashier of the Hudson-Mercantile National Bank—it's very important,” said Jimmie Dale earnestly.
“I am Mr. Carling,” replied the other. “What is it?”
Jimmie Dale leaned forward.
“From headquarters—with a report,” he said, in a low tone.
“Ah!” exclaimed the bank official sharply. “Well, it's about time! I've been waiting up for it—though I expected you would telephone rather than this. Come in!”
“Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale courteously—and stepped into the hall.
The other closed the front door. “The servants are in bed, of course,” he explained, as he led the way toward the lighted room. “This way, please.”
Behind the other, across the hall, Jimmie Dale followed and close at Carling's heels entered the room, which was fitted up, quite evidently regardless of cost, as a combination library and study. Carling, in a somewhat pompous fashion, walked straight ahead toward the carved-mahogany flat-topped desk, and, as he reached it, waved his hand.
“Take a chair,” he said, over his shoulder—and then, turning in the act of dropping into his own chair, grasped suddenly at the edge of the desk instead, and, with a low, startled cry, stared across the room.