Grace hung up the receiver and rang again. This time she called the bank, asking for the president. "Is this Mr. Furlow?" she said. "This is Grace Harlowe. I am at the office of Mr. Henry Hammond, who is about to write my father a check for five hundred dollars, which he wishes to cash before the bank closes. It is now ten minutes of three. He will be there inside of seven minutes. Thank you. Good-bye."
"Now," she commanded, turning to Hammond, the expression of whose face was a combination of baffled rage, disappointment and fear, "write the check."
With a muttered imprecation he went to his desk, jerked out a checkbook and wrote the desired check.
"To whom shall I make it payable?" he muttered.
"To Thomas G. Harlowe," replied Grace composedly.
Inserting her father's name, he fairly flung the check in her face, and strode to the door.
"Open this door," he commanded.
There was no response.
"You may open the door, Eleanor," called Grace. "Mr. Hammond is ready to go now."
The key turned in the lock. With a savage jerk, Henry Hammond flung open the door, and brushing Eleanor aside, bolted for the stairway.