George Grayson kept his place at the window, looking more cool and unconcerned than he would had he known what was going on.
Somehow there seemed to be a good deal of delay in getting the money. The paying teller occupied a considerable time in turning over the pages of the ledger.
Apparently he had selected the wrong book, for he then went to another and began to examine that. Now and then he turned his eyes to the front entrance.
Grayson suspected nothing at first, but after a while it occurred to him to wonder why he had to wait so long, especially as two other persons had come into the bank and were standing behind him waiting for their turn.
Thus far he had not discovered Ben and his friend the novelist, but chancing to turn his head after a time he caught sight of the two.
Then he understood.
“I must bolt,” he said to himself, and leaving his place he hurried to the door. But he met the boy coming up the steps with a policeman.
The boy spoke a word to the officer, who sprang forward and grasped Grayson by the arm.
“What do you mean?” demanded Grayson haughtily, assuming a look of virtuous innocence.
“Come back into the bank with me,” said the policeman, “and you will learn.”