“But this is a matter of importance. I’d like you to tell me what you can about Hong Yo, who I think is known to you.”
There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the wire; after a short pause there came the answer in the same cold tone.
“We never discuss our depositors with strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. If you have a check signed by Hong Yo it will be honored instantly, no matter what the sum. Good-night.”
“One moment,” cried Kenyon, hastily. But it was too late; the other had already rung off.
“I expected that,” remarked Webster. “Bank people are rather close mouthed as a rule. I don’t think you’ll learn much from that source.”
“It would seem not.”
Kenyon sat down and lit a cigarette. Under the light bulbs his face had a drawn, harassed look and the usually good-humored eyes had a baffled, eager glow in them. But in spite of this very evident mental unrest, the elegant distinction of his manner was unimpaired; and he brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with solicitude.
“Your two thousand dollars is going to come in rather handy,” remarked he thoughtfully. “It looks like a long hunt, and that sort of thing takes money.”
“There is more where the two came from,” said Webster. “Don’t hesitate to call again.”
“Thanks.” Kenyon puffed at the cigarette frowningly for a moment. “It means a waste of both money and time,” grumbled he, “and I suppose I’m next door to a fool for bothering with it. But it’s got on my nerves and I can’t drop it.”