it?"

"It's one of your employes; in fact, it's your receiving teller."

"What! Henry Morley! Impossible, sir! Outrageous! Preposterous!"

"Just a moment, if you please," put in Braceway. "I was going to say that
I was positive about nothing. I've been compelled to suspect, however,
that Mr. Morley might be short in his accounts. There are unexplained
circumstances which seem to connect Mr. Morley with the murder of a
woman. Therefore----"

"One of the--one of my employes a thief and a murderer!" Mr. Beale pushed
back his chair and fell to patting his knees with his fists. "Great God,
Mr.----" He looked at the card again. "Why, Mr. Braceway, I can't believe
it. It would be treason to this bank, treason to all its traditions!" He
had not suffered such an attack of garrulity for the past twenty years.
"And Morley, his family, his birth! By George, sir, his blood! Are we to
lose all faith in blood?"

"As I wanted to say," Braceway managed to break in, "the murder of Mrs.
George S. Withers in Furmville, North Carolina, led----"

This was the crowning blow. Mr. Beale gasped several times in rapid
succession, not entirely hiding his slight, cold resemblance to a fish.

"Mrs. Withers!" he got out at last. "The daughter of my old friend, Will
Fulton! Fulton, one of our depositors!"

He was reduced to silent horror.

Braceway took advantage of his condition and outlined the circumstances
in considerable detail.

"If he's short in his accounts," he concluded, "the motive for the murder
is established. And, if he's been stealing from the bank, you want to
know it."

Mr. Beale pushed a bell-button.

"Charles," he said to the chilly little man, "tell Mr. Jones I want to
speak to him. Our first vice-president," he explained to Braceway.

Mr. Jones, evidently dressed and ready for the part of president of the
bank whenever Mr. Beale should see fit to die, came in and, with frowns,
"dear-dears" and tongue-clucking, heard from the president the story of
what had befallen the Anderson National.

"How soon," inquired Beale, "can we give this--er--gentleman an answer,
a definite answer, as to whether Morley, the unspeakable scoundrel, is a
thief?"

Mr. Jones considered sadly.

"Perhaps, very soon; two o'clock or something like that--and again it may
take time to find anything. Suppose we say five or half-past five this
afternoon; to be safe, you understand. Half-past five?"

"Very well," agreed Beale, and turned to Br