“About ten thousand dollars, I should say,” said Jimmie Dale slowly. “I haven't counted it. Your bank was robbed this evening at closing time, I understand?”
“Yes!” Carling's voice was excited now, the colour back in his face. “But you—how—do you mean that you are returning the money to the bank?”
“Exactly,” said Jimmie Dale.
Carling was once more the pompous bank official. He leaned back and surveyed Jimmie Dale critically with his little black eyes.
“Ah, quite so!” he observed. “That accounts for the mask. But I am still a little in the dark. Under the circumstances, it is quite impossible that you should have stolen the money yourself, and—”
“I didn't,” said Jimmie Dale. “I found it hidden in the home of one of your employees.”
“You found it—WHERE?”
“In Moyne's home—up in Harlem.”
“Moyne, eh?” Carling was alert, quick now, jerking out his words. “How did you come to get into this, then? His pal? Double-crossing him, eh? I suppose you want a reward—we'll attend to that, of course. You're wiser than you know, my man. That's what we suspected. We've had the detectives trailing Moyne all evening.” He reached forward over the desk for the telephone. “I'll telephone headquarters to make the arrest at once.”
“Just a minute,” interposed Jimmie Dale gravely. “I want you to listen to a little story first.”