Had he been present at an interview which took place after he had retired, he might have been better pleased. The banker had not been many minutes in the parlor, chewing the cud of the affair, before he was interrupted by his cashier. In this there was nothing unusual; routine required Rodd’s presence in the parlor several times in the day. But his manner on the present occasion, and the way in which he closed the door, prepared Ovington for something new, and “What is it, Rodd?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, and disposing himself to listen.
“Can I have a word with you, sir?”
“Certainly.” The banker’s face told nothing. Rodd’s was that of a man who had made up his mind to a plunge. “What is it?”
“I have been wishing to speak for some time, sir,” Rodd faltered. “This——” Ovington understood at once that he referred to the Squire’s matter—“I don’t like it, sir, and I have been with you ten years, and I feel—I ought to speak.”
Ovington shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t like it either,” he said. “But it is of less importance than you think, Rodd. I know why Mr. Griffin did it. And we are not now where we were. The withdrawal of a few hundreds or the loss of a customer——” again he shrugged his shoulders.
“No,” Rodd said gravely. “If nothing more follows, sir.”
“Why should anything follow? I know his reasons.”
“But the town doesn’t. And if it gets about, sir?”
“It won’t do us much damage. We’ve lost customers before, yet always gained more than we lost. But there, Rodd, that is not what you came in to say. What is it?” He spoke lightly, but he felt more surprise than he showed. Rodd was a model cashier, performing his duties in a precise, plodding fashion that had often excited Arthur’s ridicule; but hitherto he had never ventured an opinion on the policy of the bank, nor betrayed the least curiosity respecting its secrets. “What is it?” Ovington repeated. “What has frightened you, man?”
“We’ve a lot of notes out, sir!”