The banker shook his head. “I have tried every quarter,” he said, “and strained every resource. I cannot. I’m afraid we must fight our battle as we are.”
Arthur gazed at the floor. The elder man looked at him and thought again of the Squire. But he would not renew his suggestion. Arthur knew better than he what was possible in that quarter, and if he saw no hope, there doubtless was no hope. At best the idea had been fantastic, in view of the prejudice which the Squire entertained against the bank.
While they pondered, the door opened, and all three looked sharply round, the movement betraying the state of their nerves. But it was only Betty who entered—a little graver and a little older than the Betty of eight or nine months before, but with the same gleam of humor in her eyes. “What a conclave!” she cried. She looked round on them.
“Yes,” Arthur answered drily. “It wants only Rodd to be complete.”
“Just so.” She made a face. “How much you think of him lately!”
“And unfortunately he’s taken his little all and left us.”
The shot told. Her eyes gleamed, and she colored with anger. “What do you mean? Dad”—brusquely—“what does he mean?”
“Only that we thought it better,” the banker explained, “to make Rodd safe by paying him the little he has with us.”
“And he took it—of course?”
The banker smiled. “Of course he took it,” he said. “He would have been foolish if he had not. It was only a deposit, and there was no reason why he should risk it with us—as things are.”