"I'll come directly back here," said Wheaton. "No doubt the papers you want are in one of Mr. Porter's private boxes."
"Can you get into it to-night?"
"Yes; it's in the vault where we keep the account books, and there's no time lock."
CHAPTER XXV JAMES WHEATON DECLINES AN OFFER
Margrave hung up the receiver of his desk telephone with a slam, and rang a bell for the office boy.
"Call the Clarkson National, and tell Mr. Wheaton to come over,—right away."
It was late in the afternoon. Wheaton had been unusually busy with routine work and the directors had taken an hour of his time. He had turned away from Fenton to answer Margrave's message, and went toward the Transcontinental office with a feeling of foreboding. He remembered the place very well; it had hardly changed since the days of his own brief service there. As he crossed the threshold of the private office, the sight of Margrave's fat bulk squeezed into a chair that was too small for him, impressed him unpleasantly; he had come with mixed feelings, not knowing whether his friendly relations with the railroader were to be further emphasized, or whether Margrave was about to make some demand of him. His doubts were quickly dispelled by Margrave, who turned around fiercely as the door closed.
"Sit down, Wheaton," he said, indicating a chair by his desk. His face was very red and his stubby mustache seemed stiffer and more wire-like than ever. He was breathing in the difficult choked manner of fat men in their rage.