Mr. Holiday had extracted his note-book, and under cover of the seat-back was preparing to take notes and make comments.
"What did you use to do for a living—before?" he asked.
"I was teller in a bank."
"And what happened?"
"Then," said the man, "the missus had twins, followed by typhoid fever." His admissions came with hopeless frankness. "And I couldn't pay for all that luxury. So I stole."
"What bank were you teller in?"
"The Painsville Bank—Painsville. I'm going to them now to—to see if they won't let up. The wife says that's the thing to do—go right to the boil of trouble and prick it."
"What did your wife do while you were away?" asked Mr. Holiday delicately.
"She did odd jobs, and brought the twins up healthy."
"I remember the Painsville business," said Mr. Holiday, "because I own stock in that bank. You only took about two hundred dollars."