On this particular morning Trent saw a stout and jocund gentleman push his check across the glass entrance to the cashier’s cave and received without hesitation a large sum of money. He passed the time of day with the official, climbed into a limousine and was whirled up Broadway.
“Did yer see that?” a youth demanded who stood before Trent.
“What?” he asked quietly. It was not his pose to be interested in other of the bank’s customers.
“That guy took out twenty thousand dollars,” the boy said, reverence in his tone.
“That’s a lot of money,” said Trent.
“He lives well,” said the lad. “I ought to know, he gets his groceries from us and he only eats and drinks the best.”
“He looks like it,” the other said genially. If the stout and jocund gourmet had known what was in Trent’s mind he would have hied him back to the bank and redeposited his cash. “It’s Rudolf Liebermann, isn’t it?”
“That’s Frederick Williams, and he lives on Ninety-third, near the Drive.”
What additional information Trent wanted to know might be obtained from other than this boy. To make many inquiries might, if Frederick Williams were relieved of his roll, bring back the incident to the grocer’s boy.
Directly dusk fell Anthony Trent, in the evening garb of fashion, crossed over to Riverside Drive and presently came to the heroic statue of Jeanne d’Arc which stands at the foot of Ninety-third Street. By this time he knew the license number of the Williams’ limousine and the address. It was one of those small residences of gray stone containing a dozen rooms or so. Such houses, as he knew, were usually laid out on a similar plan and he was familiar with it.