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orse than I do now." But the other was insistent. Bristow at last gave in. He would take the rest if Braceway would report progress to him at noon. Returning to his room, the sick man swore savagely. "Friday!" he said aloud. "Damn it all anyway!" Braceway lingered several minutes on the steps outside the Anderson National Bank. He felt reluctant to go inside and start the machinery that would ruin Morley. It wasn't absolutely necessary, he argued, with something like weakness; he could, perhaps, find out all he wanted to know without---- He thought suddenly of the bizarre performances of the thing men call Fate. Because a woman is murdered under mysterious circumstances in a little southern city, evidence is uncovered showing that a panic-stricken boy has been stealing money from a bank hundreds of miles away; a detective is employed by the dead woman's husband; the detective is thrown again into contact with the victim's sister and realizes more clearly than ever that he loves her. What would be the result of it all--the result for him? He remembered the gown she had worn to a ball, something of the palest yellow--how the blue of her eyes and the gleam of her hair had been emphasized by the simple perfection of the gown. What would she say if he went back to---- He forced himself down to reality. He entered the bank and discovered that Morley had not reported for work. Having presented his card to a chilly, monosyllabic little man, he was shown, after a short wait, into a private office where, surrounded by several tons of mahogany, Mr. Joseph Beale reigned supreme. Mr. Beale struck him as a fattened duplicate of Mr. Illington, thin of lip, hard of eye, slow and precise in enunciation. In spite of his stoutness, he had the same long, slender fingers, easy to grasp with, and the same mechanical Punch-and-Judy smile. When he greeted the detective, his voice was like a slow, thin stream that had run over ice. "I'm not on a pleasant mission, Mr. Beale," Braceway began. "It's something in the line of duty." The bank president looked at the card which had been handed to him. "Ahem!" he said, with a lip smile. "You're a detective?" "Yes." "Well, Mr. Braceway, what is it? Let's see whether I can do anything for you. At least, I assume you want----" This ruffled Braceway. "I want nothing," he said crisply; "and I'm afraid I'm going to do something for you." The banker stiffened. "What is
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