“Yes, it’s just around the corner,” and the clerk indicated the direction.
“Then I think I’ll drop around there. I can give them some information about Crawford, anyway; besides, we’ve come to know each other pretty well.”
His manner was careless, but inwardly he attached a great deal of importance to the bit of information which by chance had come his way. It suggested one of the possibilities he had feared, namely, that Follansbee would try some trick to get possession of a large sum of money belonging to one or the other of the partners, or both.
It being Saturday, he found the bank closed when he reached it, but most of the employees were still on hand, and his knock soon brought a response. He mentioned his business to the clerk who opened the door, and a few moments later he was led into the cashier’s room. The bank official had expected either Stone or Crawford, and his face betrayed his disappointment. His manner was another proof that something out of the ordinary had occurred, or was impending.
Nick drew a card front his pocket and held it out silently. As soon as the cashier saw the name, “Nicholas Carter,” his eyes widened.
“There’s nothing wrong, Mr. Carter, I hope?” he asked quickly. “I was very doubtful of honoring the check, but I had Mr. Stone’s own note to justify me.”
From the desk at his elbow he picked up a sheet of paper bearing the Hotel Windermere heading, and held it out. Nick glanced at the big, careless scrawl.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen specimens of Stone’s writing, and I don’t think there’s any doubt that this is his.”
The cashier then extended a check marked “paid,” and made out to “S. Follansbee.”
There were probably several men among New York City’s five millions who had the right to that name and initial, but it seemed perfectly safe to eliminate all but one. It was the sum called for, however, that riveted the detective’s attention at once and caused him to fairly gasp.