Two thousand dollars looked smaller to Ezra Dameron now than ever before in his life. His thoughts were with larger matters than mortgage loans. It was better to drop the Merriam loan altogether than to invite a scrutiny of the affairs of his trusteeship, he reflected; and Zelda had hardly reached the street before he was again deep in his figures.
Zelda went directly to the bank and sought Burton, the cashier, whom she had met several times at parties. He gave her a seat by his desk near the front window. He was sure that she had come to solicit for a charity, and she was so handsome that he rather enjoyed his peril.
“I have come from my father to speak about a business matter. He is very sorry that he can’t come himself. There are some notes here for collection, given by Mrs. Thomas Merriam to my father. He thought, or—I mean, they were to have been collected, but it was all a mistake about them. He wished me to say that nothing was to be done.”
“Excuse me one moment, Miss Dameron.”
He went to the note-teller’s cage and brought the notes, which were pinned to the mortgage.
“Your father wishes nothing done in the matter?” he asked, laying the slips of paper before Zelda.
“No,” she answered slowly, eying the notes curiously. “I suppose I may as well take them with me,—to save my father the trouble of coming for them.”
“That’s a little—irregular, I suppose,” said the young man, doubtfully, but he laughed.
“I suppose it is,” said Zelda, “but father was very anxious that nothing should be done, so I’ll just take them along. Your bank is so big that some one might forget a little thing like this.”
The young man hesitated and was lost. Zelda crumpled the papers between her gloved fingers and closed her fist upon them.