“Yes, of course—you’re the president. My name is Nellie Murdock.”
“You live in Vevay Street?” He dropped his voice. “I can’t talk to you here, but I’ve been asked to see a young man named Drake at your house. Please tell him I’ll be there at five-thirty today. You understand?”
“Yes, thank you. He hasn’t come yet; but he expected to get in at five.” Her lips quivered; she gave him a quick, searching glance, then nodded and walked rapidly out.
Burgess spoke to another customer in the line, with his eyes toward the street, so that he saw the red feather flash past the window and vanish; then he strolled back to where the detective sat. On the banker’s desk, face down, lay the memorandum he had sent to the bookkeeper. He turned this up, glanced at it and handed it to Hill.
“Balance $178.18; Julius Murdock,” Hill read. “How much did Nellie draw?”
“An even hundred. I stopped to speak to her a moment. Nice girl!”
“Gray eyes, fine teeth, nose slightly snub; laughs easily and shows dimples. Wears usually a gold chain with a gold heart-shaped locket—small diamond in center,” said Hill, as though quoting.
“Locket—yes; I did notice the locket,” frowned Burgess.
“And you didn’t overlook the dimples,” remarked the detective—“you can’t exactly. By-the-way, you didn’t change any money for her yourself?”
“What do you mean?” asked Burgess with a scowl. “Wait!” he added as the detective’s meaning dawned upon him.