What would be the result of it all—the result for him? He remembered the gown she had worn to a ball, something of the palest yellow—how the blue of her eyes and the gleam of her hair had been emphasized by the simple perfection of the gown. What would she say if he went back to——
He forced himself down to reality.
He entered the bank and discovered that Morley had not reported for work. Having presented his card to a chilly, monosyllabic little man, he was shown, after a short wait, into a private office where, surrounded by several tons of mahogany, Mr. Joseph Beale reigned supreme.
Mr. Beale struck him as a fattened duplicate of Mr. Illington, thin of lip, hard of eye, slow and precise in enunciation. In spite of his stoutness, he had the same long, slender fingers, easy to grasp with, and the same mechanical Punch-and-Judy smile. When he greeted the detective, his voice was like a slow, thin stream that had run over ice.
"I'm not on a pleasant mission, Mr. Beale," Braceway began. "It's something in the line of duty."
The bank president looked at the card which had been handed to him.
"Ahem!" he said, with a lip smile. "You're a detective?"
"Yes."
"Well, Mr. Braceway, what is it? Let's see whether I can do anything for you. At least, I assume you want——"
This ruffled Braceway.