“What d’ye want, Chief? Sure it’s me, Elmer.... Hey? Who? Alonzo D. Pawling? My God, is he dead? Took pizen! W-what for! He’s a rich man, ain’t he?... Speculated?... You say he took the bank’s funds? Trust funds? What!” he screeched––“put ’em into my company! He’s a liar! 350 ... I don’t care what letters he left!... Well, all right then. Sure, I’ll get a lawyer–––”
“Tell him to hold that wire!” cut in Jim; and took the receiver from Skidder’s shaking fingers.
“Is the Shadow Hill Trust Company insolvent?” he asked. “You say that the bank closed its doors this morning? Have you any idea of its condition? Looted? Is it entirely cleaned out? Is there no chance for depositors? I wish to inquire about the trust funds, bonds and other investments belonging to a friend of mine, Miss Dumont.... Yes, I’ll wait.”
He turned a troubled and sombre gaze toward Skidder, who sat there pasty-faced, with sagging jaw, staring back at him. And presently:
“Yes.... Yes, this is Mr. Shotwell, a friend of Miss Dumont.... Yes.... Yes.... Yes.... I see.... Yes, I shall try to communicate with her immediately.... Yes, I suppose the news will be published in the evening papers.... Certainly.... Yes, I have no doubt that she will go at once to Shadow Hill.... Thank you.... Yes, it does seem rather hopeless.... I’ll try to find her and break it to her.... Thank you. Good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver, took his hat and coat, his eyes fixed absently on Skidder.
“You’d better beat it to your attorney,” he remarked, and went out.
He could not find Palla. She was not at the Red Cross, not at the canteen, not at the new Hostess House.
He telephoned Ilse for information, but she was not at home.