“Such a person called. Whether he wore your clothes, or not, of course I can’t say.”
“Woosh! Johnny Hardluck is getting ready to hand me one. Stand close, Matt. I’m going to need you, I reckon. Yes, amigo, they were my clothes. Did she give you an order from the colonel for the bullion?”
“She?” echoed the cashier, lifting his brows.
“Of course you couldn’t know that,” said McGlory, “but the fellow who claimed to be me was a moharrie. She gave you the colonel’s order and you handed her the gold?”
“No. I had her sign a receipt and was just about to send for the gold when a telegram arrived. I had——”
“Then—then——”
“Just a minute, please. I had the young woman step into my private room, and instead of sending for the gold I sent for the bank policeman. When he went into the room to arrest the girl, she had vanished. Something, I suppose, had aroused her suspicions. At any rate, she slipped from a window and made good her escape. I’m very sorry it happened. It is a blow at law and order for such a would-be criminal to get away.”
The cowboy stared; then a glow overspread his face, and he grabbed for the cashier’s hand.
“Sorry!” he exclaimed. “Why, pard, this isn’t a time to be sorry about anything! You’ve still got the colonel’s gold in your safe, and I’m the happiest stray in all New York! You hear that, Matt?” and he whirled and caught his chum by both hands. “It was a close shave, but that message of ours did the trick! The gold’s here, and Tibbits has been done—done to a turn! If there weren’t so many people around, I’d yell.”
“You say you’re Joe McGlory?” said the cashier casually, “but I’m from Missouri—after what happened yesterday. You haven’t the colonel’s order, and even that isn’t a safe means of identification. How are you going to prove you’re Joe McGlory?”