"Sorry about him myself," said Mrs. Peter V., seemingly sincere. It was only when she added, "He certainly knew how to hook up waists," that the shallowness of the woman's mind was evident. And even Flomerfelt recoiled from her when, a moment later, she motioned to him to seat himself by her side.
"Who shot at Wilkinson?" she asked, persistently, drawing him closer to her.
Flomerfelt dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand.
"As we remarked, it makes but little difference now. The shot went wild."
At six o'clock that night, Eliot Beekman dined at the Iroquois Hotel in Buffalo with J. K. Witheridge, cashier of the Bank Le Boeuf.
"You were so successful, Mr. Beekman," said the cashier, when coffee and cigars had arrived, "with that hopeless Cantrell mix-up of ours in New York, that we thought we would give you a harder nut to crack. This time our claim is for $50,000, if it's a cent."
Beekman pricked up his ears. This was worth a hurried trip to Buffalo and no mistake.
"Against whom is your claim?" he asked.
"One reason why we wanted to see you personally," the cashier went on to explain, "is because there seems to be a good deal of secrecy involved in this thing. Our claim is against the Tri-State Trust Company—our funds on deposit there. We want to get them back."
"You stand a small chance ..." quickly spoke up Beekman. "In my opinion, Tri-State won't pay three per cent."