Robb glowered at a passing limousine.
"Don't ask me," he said fiercely. "From now on my daily prayer is for a chance to get back at them. I hope it will come. All my life in the business, Evan, I've seen instances, like this, of the bank's mercilessness. I'm sick and tired of it. It's you who are lucky, my lad, and I who am unlucky."
"Still," said Evan, "it's an awful thing to feel that you're suspected of being a thief."
Robb's eyes flamed.
"They don't think it," he said sharply; "the rascals know you are innocent! It is not their opinion that hurts, Evan, but their influence—I hope—" He did not finish it. "I wonder," he continued, "if these fellows know what it is to hear their hearts beat? They claim to be big men; they make a great display of affection among their own folk, but when it comes to showing humane consideration for someone, they can't do it. They only invest friendship or justice where it will, like the money they invest, bring big returns. The clerk is only one of the many who don't count with them. What does he matter to them?—they wear him out and pay him out for gain."
The ex-manager spoke with emphasis and his lips puckered as after a bitter expectoration.
"I hope," said Evan, "that some day you'll get a chance to quit."
"That sounds good, coming from you," replied Robb. "I only live on that hope myself. Sometimes it seems forlorn enough, though.... By Jove! it's after nine; I must beat it. I'll see you at dinner to-night, eh?"
"All right."
Evan watched the old clerk down the avenue, and he remembered the first time he had seen that gait. It was in Mt. Alban on a May day, too. The juvenile bankman had pictured himself walking down the main street of some town inside a manager's clothes and shoes—just like Mr. Robb.