“If you mean Dick Regnier,” exclaimed Dorothy, her eyes flashing, “you’re wrong. I’ve known him for years, and I know he is not the man. It takes just a touch of insanity that Dick never had, to do what ‘the man’ is doing. ‘The man’ must be practically a monomaniac on the subject.”
The bus stopped just as the Bank came in sight. Dorothy turned squarely in her seat and faced me. The seats around us happened to be empty. She looked at my somewhat guilty face and spoke emphatically.
“Jim Orrington, you don’t believe me, but it isn’t Dick Regnier.”
“Now, Dorothy,” I said, “look here. How did the letter get changed, unless it was done by Regnier that night at your cousin’s?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“Oh, come now,” said Tom. “Drop it. Here’s where we get off.”
We had drawn our money and had started away, when I suddenly thought of the mail. I turned back to the little window and asked if there were any letters for us which had not been forwarded. A few moments brought a big package, among them three or four bulky envelopes from the office. Hailing a cab, we read busily as we drove back to the Savoy. One long typewritten report I read with especial care, and handed over to Dorothy when she had finished her mail. She looked at me reproachfully, as she read the title. “And you never mentioned this at all.”
“I forgot all about it,” I answered. “I started that inquiry the day I was in prison. The night I got out, the Denckel letter came, and we’ve been so busy ever since that I completely forgot this.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Tom.