“Only as an official of the bank of Burwin & Son, in New York City. My uncle, Richard Burwin, is the sole owner of the bank, as I think you know.”
Varron nodded, and waved a hand for Stanley Downs to continue.
“Because he is the sole owner, he insists on doing things in his own way. Colonel Prentiss has been selling many tickets in Buffalo, and he found himself with more cash than he wanted to take care of. He is like my uncle in the way of having notions, and he will not do business with any bank except Burwin & Son. That is why he would not deposit any of his cash in banks at Buffalo or elsewhere, as he might have done.”
“I see. Drive ahead, Stan! Get down to cases!”
“My uncle sent me to Buffalo to get twenty thousand dollars that Colonel Prentiss wanted to deposit with us. I was not allowed to use the railroads—I didn’t want to, for that matter—but was to go in my own car, with Karl, who is my uncle’s own chauffeur, to drive when I got tired, and to help me guard the money.”
“Swell idea!” observed Clay Varron. “But I never knew the day when Stanley Downs couldn’t take care of himself—and of anything he was told to keep safely.”
Stanley got up from his chair and strode up and down the room. In a suit of light clothes belonging to Clay Varron, which fitted him almost as well as if they had been made for him, Stanley was a fine-looking specimen of the American man in his twenties.
His erect carriage, firm jaw, quick eye, and alert bearing were all those of the young man who “does things.” Even the troubled expression that drew his brows together and made him bite his lip impatiently, only seemed to accentuate the firmness of his character.
“Now I am in trouble, Varron,” he said, after a short silence. “When my car took a header into the lake, out there——”
“Great Scott! Was that what it did?” interrupted Clay excitedly.