Ferris at once rang on Mr. Robert Wade's private telephone, and was relieved when he learned that the manager had just left his Fifth Avenue home for the office. There was a crowd of the senior employees waiting around the door to congratulate the new vice-president, when old Edward Somers tottered in, his face ashen with fright. Ferris dropped the telephone ear-cup and sprang forward.
"Speak! What's gone wrong?" he cried. He feared to learn that within that locked office the moody Clayton lay cold in death—a suicide.
But the old accountant only raised his head and babbled, "There's something gone wrong with Mr. Clayton. The bank has just sent me a messenger."
"Our Saturday deposit never reached the bank! He's in there now.
Oh! My God!"
Rapidly turning on the District call for the police, Ferris darted into Secretary Edson's room.
"Wallace," he cried, "take two of your best men; get pistols. Shut the offices! Let no one leave! There's been a gigantic robbery here; perhaps a murder!"
Wallace Edson sprang up, brave and resolute, as Ferris dashed back to the broken old man.
"How much?" he sharply demanded. "Nearly a quarter of a million!" the old accountant faltered.
"Where's the bank-book?" cried Ferris, his presence of mind returning.
"Clayton has it," the bookkeeper sadly said.