“Why,” innocently, as she lowered the knitting again, “he does not stand to lose anything, does he?”
“Except his place,” the cashier objected, his eyes on his glass.
“Just so,” the banker rejoined. “And in that event,” moved to unusual frankness, “we should have been all out together. And Rodd might not have been the worst off, my girl.
“Exactly,” Betty said. “I’m sure that he would take care of that.”
The cashier opened his mouth to speak, but checked himself, and drank off his wine. Then, as he rose, “If you know where Mr. Clement is, sir——”
“I don’t. I can’t think what has become of him,” the banker explained. “He went out about four, and since then—hallo! That’s some one in a hurry. It sounds like a fire.”
A vehicle had burst in on the evening stillness. It came clattering at a reckless pace up Bride Hill. It passed the bank, it rattled noisily around the corner of the Market Place, and pounded away down the High Street.
“More likely some one hastening to get out of danger,” said Betty. “A sauve qui peut, Mr. Rodd—if you know what that means.”
The clerk, with a flushed cheek, avoided the question. “It might be some one trying to catch the seven o’clock coach, sir,” he said.
“Very likely. And if so he’s failed, for he’s coming back again. Ay, here he comes, and he stopping here, by Jove! I hope that nothing’s wrong.”