The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: “Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you going back to Ringwood?” and he nodded toward Allis's buggy.
“Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer,” and she held out her hand.
Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his own. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank.
“May I go with you?” asked Crane; “I want to see your father.”
“Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over,” the girl answered.
XLI
When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: “I doubt if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew—I mean, he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank. In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole it.”
“I do know of this terrible thing,” she answered. “I shook hands with him because I believe him innocent.”
“You know more than we do?” It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful inquiry.