“Yes, sir,” he stammered, “it is. I'll attend to it at once.”
“Ah!” there was a peculiar drawl in the cashier's voice as he spoke; “ah, I had a communication from Mr. Porter yesterday, asking if the note had been paid.”
Mortimer felt his knees shake-something was choking hire. Had the devil of mischance taken the salvation of Alan's good name out of his hands—had his work been for nothing.
“I couldn't understand it,” went on the cashier. His voice sounded like the clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenly modulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. “I thought Porter knew the money was here to meet the note,” said Lane, still speaking, “but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up the papers. I found one thousand dollars missing!” He was looking steadily at Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. There was accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze.
Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked in erratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him; the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; not a sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken by fear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter's being given to him. The cashier waited for Mortimer to say something; then he spoke again, with reproach in his voice.
“I at once sent a messenger to ask you to return from your home at Emerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had not been there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you were yesterday?”
“I was at Gravesend, sir—at the races,” answered Mortimer, defiantly.
This speech broke the lethargy that was over him; his mind cleared—he commenced to think sanely.
“Can you tell me,” proceeded Lane, “where the balance of Mr. Porter's three thousand dollars is?”
“It's in the box.”