Albert Wall read rapidly and, taking a fountain pen from his pocket, signed at once. Mr. Pelle read his paper through and then read it again. He wrote his name slowly.
“Albert’s paper, Captain.” The doctor laid it on the desk at his right hand. “Pelle’s.” It went upon the left. “Now, Bryan, if I may have those checks. First the one Pelle says he didn’t sign.” It went upon the right with Albert Wall’s statement.
The bank president’s nerves had been under a long strain. “What’s the meaning of this, Doctor?” he snapped. “If you have your suspicions, let us know them. If you have anything to say, say it. Don’t waste time.”
“Presently,” the doctor said mildly. His hands had moved, mysteriously explored, and had come to rest. That vague something in his face was no longer there; he was serene. When he spoke again his voice was almost confidential. “Had that fountain pen long, Albert?”
The cashier was surprised. “Four or five years.”
“You kept it too long. It tripped you.”
“Tripped? Look here, Doctor, what are you driving at?”
“Money,” the blind man said. “Five thousand dollars. What did you do with it?”
In the appalled silence of the room Joe heard clearly the sound of someone breathing with an effort. The cashier had not moved.
“Do you know what you’re saying, Doctor?”