"He will give you what you want," the old man added.
I still hesitated, holding Carboner's scrawl in my hand.
"You think it no good?" He motioned to the sheet of coarse paper. "Try it!"
"Don't you want a receipt?" I stammered.
"What for? Do you think I am a pawnbroker?"
The mystery grew. Suppose I should take this old fellow's scrawl over to Orlando Bates, and the president of the Tenth National should ask me what it meant?
"It is good," Carboner said impressively.
"Whose is it?" The words escaped me unconsciously. "I want to know whose money I am taking."
"I hope it will be no one's," he answered imperturbably, "except the bank's. You come to me wanting money, credit. I give it to you. I ask no questions. Why should you?"
Was it a woman's money I was taking to play out my game. I recalled the story Sarah had told me years ago about Jane Dround's father and his fortune. He was a rich old half-breed trader, and it was gossiped that he had left behind him a pile of gold. Perhaps this Mr. Carboner was some French-Canadian, friend or business partner of Jane's father, who had charge of her affairs. As Sarah had said, Jane Dround was always secret and uncommunicative about herself. My faith in the piece of paper was growing, but I still waited.