'Nothing as yet, Mr. Kenyon; I think, however,' he added with a smile, 'that it will be all right. I hope so.'
The moments ticked along with their usual rapidity, yet it seemed to Kenyon the clock was going fearfully fast. Eleven o'clock came and found him still pacing up and down the office of the telegraph. The operator offered him the hospitality of the private room, but this he declined. Every time the machine clicked, John's ears were on the alert, trying to catch a meaning from the instrument.
Ten minutes after eleven!
Twenty minutes after eleven, and still no despatch! The cold perspiration stood on John's brow, and he groaned aloud.
'I suppose it's very important,' said the operator.
'Very important.'
'Well, now, I shouldn't say so, but I know the money is in the bank for you. Perhaps if you went up there and demanded it, they would give it to you.'
It was twenty-five minutes past the hour when John hurried towards the bank.
'I have every belief,' he said to the cashier, 'that the money is here for me now. Is it possible for me to get it?'
'Have you your cablegram?'