There was a worried look on Dimmock’s face as the touring car left the front of the bank and moved slowly along the street.
“It’s a lot of trouble and risk we’re taking for ten thousand dollars,” he muttered.
“You’ve taken more trouble and risk for less, Dimmock,” said Tibbits.
“I have, yes,” admitted the other, his face gray with anxiety, “but never before have I asked Pearl to help me in such a matter. It will be the last time.”
“Bah!” sneered Tibbits.
Meantime, the girl and Charley had entered the bank. Charley’s nervousness had increased to a painful degree. The frosty blue eyes of the girl, observing his abstracted manner, led her to infer that Charley, so far from being a help, would prove a source of danger.
“You stay back here, Motor Matt,” she whispered, “and I’ll talk with the cashier alone.”
Charley was only too glad to receive a command of that kind. Leaning against a writing desk at the wall, he watched his companion as she boldly made her way to the railing behind which the cashier transacted his business. Something like admiration awoke in Charley’s soul—that is, if there can be anything admirable in such an attempt as the girl was about to make.
The long, yellow tresses had been cut from the girl’s head—a sacrifice demanded by the exigencies of the case.