“Pardon me, Miss McIntyre.” He stamped the check and laid it to one side, “how do you want the money?”
“Oh, I forgot.” She glanced at a memorandum on the back of an envelope. “Mrs. Brewster wishes ten tens, five twenties, and ten ones. Thank you, good afternoon,” and counting over the money she thrust it inside her bag and hurried away.
She had been gone a bare five minutes when Kent reached the window and pushed several checks toward the teller.
“Is Mr. Clymer in his office, McDonald?” he asked, placing the bank notes given him in his wallet.
“I'm not sure.” The teller glanced around at the clock; the hands stood at ten minutes of three. “It's pretty near closing time, Kent; still, he may be there.”
“I'll go and see,” and with a nod of farewell Kent turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the office of the bank president. On reaching there he saw, through the glass partition of the door, Clymer seated in earnest conclave with two men.
Happening to glance up Clymer recognized Kent and beckoned to him to come inside. “You know Taylor,” he said by way of introduction. “And this is Mr. Harding of New York—Mr. Kent,” he turned around in his swivel chair to face the three men. “Draw up a chair, Kent; we were just going over to see you.
“Yes?” Kent looked inquiringly at the bank president, the gravity of his manner betokened serious tidings. “What is it, Mr. Clymer?”
Clymer did not reply at once. “It's this,” he said finally, with blunt directness. “Your partner, Philip Rochester, appears to be a bankrupt. Harding and Taylor came in here to attach his private bank account to cover indebtedness to their business firms.”
An exclamation broke from Kent. “Impossible!” he gasped.