Though it was past midnight, he managed to get on the wire the detective department in the town where Witherby had gone on the bank’s business. Mr. Bentfield received the promise that the arrest would be made at once, and he would be notified as soon as this took place.
“Then we’ll wait here until we get that word,” said the president. “We can make ourselves comfortable in my private office, and see what the telephone says.”
They waited, talking at intervals about the strange case. Larry thought over the points of the story he would write the next day. The finding of the valise, so strangely hidden, would make sensational reading.
Suddenly there came the tinkle of the telephone bell. Mr. Bentfield reached for the instrument.
“Yes—yes, this is the Consolidated National,” he answered. “Yes, I’m the president. What’s that? You went to arrest Witherby, at the hotel where he was stopping over-night. Yes—yes! Well, go on, hurry up. Did you get him?”
“What? You didn’t? Why not?”
“He’d gone! What’s that? Do I get you right? He’d gone? Taken an early morning train for New York? My, that’s strange!”
Mr. Bentfield placed his hand over the transmitter of the telephone, and, turning to Larry and the lawyer, said:
“He’s gone! Left for New York. They can’t arrest him there.”
“All right,” said the lawyer, who thought quickly. “Tell them we’ll look after the case from this end. Ring off, and get police headquarters here. Give them a description of Witherby, and tell them to watch his boarding place in Hackenford, or have the police there do it. It would be better to have a New York detective on the case. We’ll nab him when he comes to get his thousand-dollar bill.”