"Exactly," added Judge. "That will make it worthwhile during the waiting period — when I am looking forward to that Eastern presidency."
"It's a marvel, Judge," declared Major. "A phony gag to build up a genuine reputation. The greatest idea ever — and it's gone over in a big way!"
Nodding, Judge glanced through the glass partition and saw four men entering the bank.
They were stalwart fellows, carrying revolvers in holsters strapped to their sides.
"Bronlon's special police," said Judge. "Come for the pay roll and the bonus money. I can see the armored car out in the street. Your job, Major."
This transaction, completed on a quiet Saturday, was of tremendous size. Bronlon's weekly pay roll was a matter of close to one hundred thousand dollars, including, as it did, pay rolls for lesser businesses with which the great financier was associated.
The armored car had called a week before, and had taken away that sum for distribution.
Now, in addition, the bonus money was going out. It mounted to a month's pay. In all, nearly half a million in cash was to leave in the custody of those four stalwart men.
Yet this immense transaction was merely a matter of routine. Stacks of crisp bills were ready in the vault. A final check-up alone was necessary. Judge went back to his newspaper.
When Bronlon's men were gone, Major reappeared in Judge's office, wearing a troubled look.