"And you need cash in a hurry," went on Tom. "How much?"
"Fifty thousand dollars at least," replied Mr. Damon.
"And if you don't get it?"
The eccentric man shrugged his shoulders.
"Well," remarked Mr. Swift musingly, "I don't see that we need worry you about it, Tom. Perhaps—"
Mr. Swift was interrupted by a ring at the front door. The three looked at each other. It was late for a caller, and Mrs. Baggert had gone to bed.
"I'll answer it," volunteered Tom. He switched on the electric light in the hall, and opened the door. He was confronted by Mr. Pendergast, the president of the bank.
"Is your father in?" asked Mr. Pendergast, and he seemed to be much agitated.
"Yes, he is," replied the lad. "Come this way, please."
"I want to see him on important business," went on the president, as he followed the young inventor. "I'm afraid I have bad news for him and Mr. Damon. Bad news, Tom, bad news," and the aged banker's voice trembled. Tom, with a chill of apprehension seeming to clutch his heart, threw open the library door.