“See if they are counterfeit. By gum!”
The clerk examined them with the glass while Walton watched him with staring eyes.
“They seem to me to be all right, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, wonderingly, as he laid the bills down.
“I reckon they are—my Lord, I reckon they are!” the banker said, in his throat. “Credit it on my private account, Toby. Credit me with three—my Lord, I didn't think—I had no idea that the dang fellow—no, I'll attend to the money. Toby, you run out and see where he goes. He may make for a hotel, or he may—but hurry!”
Twenty minutes later Toby came back and found Walton still at his desk, the money before him; his face had taken on an ashen tinge, the eye he raised had a lacklustre expression.
“Well?” he said, eagerly.
“I missed him for the first few minutes,” the clerk said. “He was on the way to the train. I took the belt-line down. He was on the car ahead. I was just in time to see him board the Atlanta special.”
“So he's gone?”
“Yes, he's gone, Mr. Walton.”
The old man stared helplessly for a minute into the puzzled face of his clerk, and then he drew the pad to him on which he had written the name of his caller.