"By the way, if you're a friend of Miss Charters', find out if she has any money invested in Wall Street, and who she's dealing through."
"Does it mean a panic?" said Beecher, surprised. "Do you mean she ought to get out?"
"Too late," said McKenna. "Find out what I asked you. I'm in a hurry. Say good-night to Mr. Gunther for me. And, say, if you're so interested in this case, get him to put you wise to Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood."
He gave a quick nod, and mingled in the crowd about the north entrance. Beecher watched him with a feeling of disillusionment. The detective had expressed no opinion, had brought to bear on the problem none of the instantaneous analysis which he had expected; in fact, had deliberately avoided even a discussion of the natural probabilities. Had this complete reticence been associated with an individuality of impressive oddity, he would have perhaps regarded it with respect. As it was, he was conscious only of being defrauded as though some one were tearing away a precious illusion.
"There's a poor devil; got all his money tied up in the Atlantic Trust," said Gunther, joining him and passing out to the waiting automobile.
"The Atlantic Trust can't fail," said Beecher, amazed. "Things aren't as bad as that."
"Don't know. Lots of queer things have been worked lately. Anyhow, what's bound to happen is—I should say—a receivership and closed doors to-morrow."
"But that means panic."
"Sure."
Beecher was silent a while. He thought of Majendie of the night before, correct, restrained, prodigal of small courtesies.