This man, whose name Larry learned was Harrison Witherby, was employed as a “runner.” That is, he took checks, notes, bills, and so forth, from his bank to others, or to the Clearing House, where, each day, banks in New York exchange their depositors’ checks put in for collection, for drafts on their own bank, and so strike a balance.
Witherby was not in the bank much, and that is how it happened that Larry had not before noticed him. His duties kept him busy outside.
“And so he’s the man with whom I had the run-in,” mused the young reporter. “Well, the less I have to do with him the better. Now to see what I can do with the bricks.”
Naturally, President Bentfield was disappointed when Larry reported that the valise clew had amounted to nothing.
“Well, keep on,” he advised the young reporter.
“I will,” promised Larry. “Something may turn up later. Have you heard anything?”
“Not a thing. The police seem completely baffled. We have every employee under strict watch, but it has resulted in nothing. None of them has gone away, or shown any inclination to leave. Their records are perfect as far as we can learn. It is a great mystery.”
“Well, I’ll see what clew the bricks give me,” spoke Larry.
“You’ll find them in the closet where the valise was,” said the president, who was on his way out of his office. “Go right in, Larry. My private office is open.”
The young reporter stepped in, carrying the valise from which he had hoped so much, but which had only proved a baffling clew. He tossed it into the closet, and picked up the bundle of bricks, in their newspaper wrappings. He intended to take them home to look at them. Later he intended on calling at a number of brick yards to learn, if possible, where the bricks had come from.