He noted the sensational story of Roland Delmar's death. With it was a facsimile reproduction of the note that had been found upon the banker's table.
This, Henry Arnaud laid to one side. He studied it again; then stared from the window.
His keen eyes seemed to be weaving their way through the buildings that lay below, seeking to learn secrets hidden within solid walls.
From his pocket, Arnaud took a wallet. He extracted a wad of bills. It was not a thick packet, but as the man laid each bill aside in turn, the value of the fund became apparent. The first bill in Henry Arnaud's bank roll was a gold certificate of ten-thousand-dollar denomination!
Then came a second; and a third. Five thousand-dollar bills followed, then a dozen intermingled hundreds and fifties.
Arnaud drew a few of the latter from the mass, and replaced the rest in his wallet. He counted the amount that he had retained — five hundred and fifty dollars in all. He thrust these bills in his vest pocket, as one would deal with small change.
Now, he brought forth the modest sum that he had obtained at the bank. He counted this money carefully: a fifty, a twenty, two tens, a five, and five ones.
After making a note of the serial numbers, he rolled the crisp notes, and slipped them in another pocket of his vest.
Again, Henry Arnaud's eyes were peering from the window. He was engrossed in thought, and as he stared, a soft laugh echoed from his lips. It was a strange, weird laugh.
Arnaud's left hand was resting on the window sill. Upon a finger glimmered an ever-changing gem — a translucent stone of fading and renewing hues. It was a rare girasol — unmatched in all the world. Had Deacon heard that laugh; had he been here to note that sparkling, mysterious jewel, his suspicions would have been justified. He would have known with certainty that Henry Arnaud was indeed one whose presence he might well fear.