Mortimer would willingly put the money back himself for Allis's sake; but he hadn't it. What was he to do? If he could find Alan and force him to give up the stolen money he could yet save the boy. But Alan had gone to Gravesend.
Like an inspiration the thought came to Mortimer that he must go after him and get the money before it was lost. He shoved the box back in its place, and came out into the office.
It was half past ten by the clock. Luckily the cashier had not come yet. Mortimer's mind worked rapidly. He must make some excuse and get away; anything; he must even lie; if he saved the boy it would be justifiable. Why did not the cashier come, now that he was ready for him? Each minute seemed an age, with the honor of Allis's brother hanging in the balance. He would need money. He drew a check for a hundred dollars. A hasty inspection showed that he still had a trifle more than this amount to his credit. Why he took a hundred he hardly knew; fate seemed writing the check. He had barely finished when the cashier appeared. At once Mortimer spoke to him.
“I want leave of absence to-day, sir,” he said, speaking hurriedly.
The cashier frowned in astonishment. “Impossible We are short-handed with young Porter away.”
“I'll be back in the morning,” pleaded Mortimer. “My mother is very ill. I've opened up, and Mr. Cass can manage, I'm sure, if you'll let me go. I wouldn't ask it, but it's a matter of almost life and death.” He had nearly said of honor.
Unwillingly the cashier consented. It probably meant extra work for him; he would certainly have to take a hand in the office routine. Theirs was not a busy bank, and that day was not likely to be a very pressing one, but still he would have to shoulder some of the labor.
Full of the terrible situation, Mortimer cared not who worked, so that he got away in time to save Allis's brother from himself. At last he was free. He almost ran to the station.
Looking from the window of the bank, the cashier seeing Mortimer's rapid pace, muttered: “I guess the poor man's mother is pretty bad; I'm glad I let him go. He's a good son to that mother of his.”
At eleven o'clock Mortimer got a train for New York. During the wait at the station he had paced up and down the platform with nervous stride. A dozen times he looked at his watch—would he be too late? He had no idea how long it would take to reach Gravesend; he knew nothing of the race track's location. As the train whirled him through Emerson, where his mother lived, he could see the little drab cottage, and wondered pathetically what the good woman would say if she knew her son was going to a race meeting. At twelve he was in New York.