“About this check, McDonald,” Clymer handed it to the teller as he spoke. “Who presented it?”
“Miss McIntyre.”
“Which Miss McIntyre?” Mrs. Brewster put the question with swift intentness.
“I can't tell one twin from the other,” confessed McDonald. “But, as you see, the check is made payable to Barbara McIntyre.”
“The inference being that Barbara McIntyre presented the check for payment,” commented Clymer, and McDonald bowed. “It would seem, therefore, that Barbara wrote your signature on the check, Mrs. Brewster.”
“No.” The widow had whitened under her rouge, but her eyes did not falter in their direct gaze. “The signature is genuine. I drew the check.”
The two men exchanged glances. The bank president was the first to break the short silence. “In that case there is nothing more to be said,” he remarked, and picking up the check handed it to Mrs. Brewster. Without a glance at it, she folded the paper and placed it inside her gold mesh bag.
“I must not take up any more of your time,” she said. “I thank you—both.”
“Mrs. Brewster.” Clymer spoke impulsively. “I'd like to shake hands with you.”
Coloring warmly, the widow slipped her small hand inside his, and with a friendly bow to McDonald, she walked through the bank, keeping up with Clymer's long strides as best she could. As they crossed the sidewalk to the waiting limousine they ran almost into the arms of Harry Kent, whose rapid gait did not suit the congested condition of the “Wall Street” of Washington. “I tried to reach you on the telephone this morning,” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, after greeting him.