as the president's voice lapsed.

"Well," Whipple accepted it, "he swaggered in and put it all over us.
There he was, a man fresh from the deathbed of a suicide father; that
father's funeral yet to occur. I, personally, hadn't the heart to
question him or raise objections. I was dazed."

"Dazed," Dykeman snapped up the word and worried it, as a dog worries a
bone. "Of course, we were all dazed. It was so open, so
shameless--that's why he got by with it. Making use of his position as
heir, less than forty eight hours after his father was shot."

"After his father shot himself," Whipple's lowered tone was a plea.
"After his father shot himself."

"Huh!" snorted Dykeman. "If a man shoots himself, he's been shot,
hasn't he? Hell! What's the use of whipping the devil round the stump
that way? Boyne, you can stand with us, or you can fight us."

"Boyne's with us--of course he's with us," Whipple broke in, his words a
good deal more confident than his tone or the look of his face.

"Well, then," Dykeman ground out, "when our thief of a teller splits
that one hundred and eighty seven thousand with his man Gilbert--shut
up, Whipple--shut up! You can't stop me--we're going to know about it.
We'll get them both then, and send them across. And we'll recover one
hundred and eighty seven thousand dollars that belongs to the Van Ness
Avenue bank."

"_Good_ night!" I got to my feet. "This lets me out. I can't deal with
men who make a scrap of paper of their contracts as quick as you
gentlemen do."

"Stop, Boyne--you haven't got it all," Dykeman ordered me.

"Yes, wait, Mr. Boyne," Whipple came in. "You haven't a full
understanding of the enormity of this young man's action. Mr. Cummings
has something to tell you which, I think, will--"

"Nothing Mr. Cummings can say," I shut them off, "will alter the fact
that I am employed by Captain Worth Gilbert at your recommendation--at
your own recommendation--that I have been away more than a week on his
business, and have not yet had an opportunity to report to him
personally. When I've seen him, I'll be ready to talk to you."

"You'll talk now or never--" Dykeman's shrill threat was interrupted by
the shriller bell of the telephone. He yanked the instrument to him,
and the "Hello!" he cried into it had the snap of an oath. He looked up
and shoved the thing in my direction. "Calling for you, Boyne," he
snarled.

There was deathly stillness in the room, so that the whir of the gre