“Adele!” gasped Mrs. Bishop. “You have heard—”
“No, she's well,” said Miller. “It's about the money you put in Craig's bank.”
“What about that?” burst from old Bishop's startled lips.
“Craig claims Winship has absconded with all the cash. The bank has failed.”
“Failed!” The word was a moan from Bishop, and for a moment no one spoke. A negro woman at the wash-place behind the house was using a batting-stick on some clothing, and the dull blows came to them distinctly.
“Is that so, Ray?” asked Alan, calm but pale to the lips.
“I'm sorry to say it is.”
“Can anything at all be done?”
“I've done everything possible already. We have been telegraphing the Atlanta police all morning about tracing Winship, but they don't seem much interested. They think he's had too big a start on us. You see, he's been gone two days and nights. Craig says he thought he was on a visit to relatives till he discovered the loss last night.”
“It simply spells ruin, old man,” said Alan, grimly. “I can see that.”