"Sure it can!" blustered Slosson. "Call up Macgowan long distance and see."
A knock sounded at the door. The typist entered, and looked at Windsor.
"There are some people here to see you, sir—"
Windsor leaped to his feet. "I'll see them outside. Wait here, gentlemen!"
He went out, closed the door, but almost instantly was back in the room. In his hand was a slip of paper. He went to the desk, and then turned to Slosson. All the genial tolerance was suddenly gone from his air; here was the assistant attorney general, curt, crisp, suspicious. His words came like a whipcrack:
"Come here and endorse this check, Slosson. We'll send it out to a bank and have them call up New York about the number of this check."
Mechanically Slosson stepped forward. It was a moment before he could actually realize that this was the check, the identical bit of paper, of which he had been robbed. Then a tide of color leaped into his cheeks, and with an abrupt outburst of fury he caught up the check and tore it asunder.
"So you hired a thug to waylay me, did you?" he cried out at Armstrong. "Thought you'd lay a trap for me, did you?"'
The words died upon his lips as he perceived the absolute futility of speech. Williams had sunk back in his chair, ashen to the lips; Windsor was cold and accusative, though silent. Armstrong and Dorns were on their feet, eager, watching, tense. Then, in the moment of silence, Windsor went to the office door and opened it.
"Come in, please," he said. Jimmy Wren and Dorothy Armstrong entered.