"It's all right, West," he instructed. "Lock it up."
Again the heavy door closed, the bolts were shot and the combination dial turned. President Fraser stood looking on curiously; it just happened that he had never witnessed this operation before.
"How much have you got in there to-night?" he asked.
"One hundred and twenty-nine thousand," replied the cashier. "And all the securities, of course."
"Hum," mused the president. "That would be a good haul for some one--if they could get it, eh, West?" and he chuckled dryly.
"Excellent," returned West, smilingly. "But they can't."
Miss Clarke, dressed for the street, her handsome face almost concealed by a veil which was intended to protect her pink cheeks from boisterous winds, was standing in the door of the president's office.
"Oh, Miss Clarke, before you go, would you write just a short note for me?" asked the president.
"Certainly," she responded, and she returned to the private office. Mr. Fraser followed her.
West and Dunston stood outside the bank railing, Dunston waiting for Miss Clarke. Every evening he walked over to the subway with her. His opinion of her was an open secret. West was waiting for the janitor to finish sweeping.