“One was from Wolverhampton, I know,” Rodd replied, “Mr. Watkins—or Walker.”
“Walker or Watkins? Of Wolverhampton? I don’t remember any customer of that name. And the other? Who was he?”
“From somewhere Bretton way. I could look him up.”
The banker eyed Rodd closely. Had the day’s work been too much for him? “You could look him up?” he rejoined. “Why, man, of course you could. Four hundred and seventy! A bank has failed before now for lack of less. All good notes, I suppose? No Gibbons’ or Garrards’, eh?” an idea striking him. “But you’d see to that. If some one had the idea of washing his hands that way—and the two banks already closed!”
But Rodd shook his head. “No, sir. It was in gold and Bank of England notes. I saw to that.”
“Then I don’t understand it,” the banker decided. He sat pondering—the thing had taken hold of his mind. Was it a trick? Did they mean to draw out the amount next morning? But, no they would not risk the money, and he would stand no worse if they drew it. An enemy could not have done it, then. A friend? But such friends were rare and the sum was no trifle. The amount was more than he had received for his plate, the proceeds of which had already gone into the cash-drawer. He pondered.
Meanwhile, “Another cup of tea?” Betty said politely. And as Rodd, avoiding her eyes, handed her his cup, “It’s so nice to hear of strangers helping us,” she continued with treacherous sweetness. “One feels so grateful to them.”
Rodd muttered something, his mouth full of toast.
“It’s so fine of them to trust us, when they don’t know how things are—as we do, of course. I think it is splendid of them,” Betty continued. “Father, you must bring them to me, some day, when all these troubles are over—that I may thank them.”
But her father had risen to his feet. He was standing on the hearthrug, a queer look on his face. “I think that they are here now,” he said. “Rodd, why did you do it?”