The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (books under 200 pages .txt) 📗

on the table with a vehemence that made young Mr. Brown jump. “What do you mean, sir?” he cried, sternly. “What do you mean by saying such a thing?”

“Why, I—I—I—mean——” stammered Brown, but he could get no further. He thought the old man had suddenly gone crazy. He glared across the library table at Brown as if the next instant he would spring at his throat. Then the haggard look came into his face again, he passed his hand across his brow, and sank into his chair with a groan.

“My dear sir,” said Brown, approaching him, “what is the matter? Is there anything I can——”

“Sit down, please,” answered the banker, melancholy. “You will excuse me I hope, I am very much troubled. I did not intend to speak of it, but some explanation is due to you. A month from now, if you are the kind of man that most of your fellows are, you will not wish to marry my daughter. There is every chance that at that time the doors of my bank will be closed.”

“You astonish me, sir. I thought——”

“Yes, and so every one thinks. I have seldom in my life trusted the wrong man, but this time I have done so, and the one mistake seems likely to obliterate all that I have succeeded in doing in a life of hard work.”

“If I can be of any financial assistance I will be glad to help you.”

“How much?”

“Well, I don’t know—50,000 dollars perhaps or——”

“I must have 250,000 dollars before the end of this month.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand!”

“Yes, sir. William L. Staples, the cashier of our bank, is now in Canada with half a million of the bank funds. No one knows it but myself and one or two of the directors. It is generally supposed that he has gone to Washington on a vacation.”

“But can’t you put detectives on his track?”

“Certainly. Then the theft would be made public at once. The papers would be full of it. There might be a run on the bank, and we would have to close the doors the next day. To put the detectives on his track would merely mean bringing disaster on our own heads. Staples is quite safe, and he knows it. Thanks to an idiotic international arrangement he is as free from danger of arrest in Canada as you are here. It is impossible to extradite him for stealing.”

“But I think there is a law against bringing stolen money into Canada.”

“Perhaps there is. It would not help us at the present moment. We must compromise with him, if we can find him in time. Of course, even if the bank closed, we would pay everything when there was time to realize. But that is not the point. It would mean trouble and disaster, and would probably result in other failures all through one man’s rascality.”

“Then it all resolves itself to this. Staples must be found quietly and negotiated with. Mr. Temple, let me undertake the finding of him, and the negotiating, also, if you will trust me.”

“Do you know him?”

“Never saw him in my life.”

“Here is his portrait. He is easily recognized from that. You couldn’t mistake him. He is probably living at Montreal under an assumed name. He may have sailed for Europe. You will say nothing of this to anybody?”

“Certainly not. I will leave on to-night’s train for Montreal, or on the first train that goes.”

Young Mr. Brown slipped the photograph into his pocket and shook hands with the banker. Somehow his confident, alert bearing inspired the old man with more hope than he would have cared to admit, for, as a general thing, he despised the average young man.

“How long can you hold out if this does not become public?”

“For a month at least; probably for two or three.”

“Well, don’t expect to hear from me too soon. I shall not risk writing. If there is anything to communicate, I will come myself.”

“It is very good of you to take my trouble on your shoulders like this. I am very much obliged to you.”

“I am not a philanthropist, Mr. Temple,” replied young Brown.

When young Mr. Brown stepped off the train at the Central Station in Toronto, a small boy accosted him.

“Carry your valise up for you, sir?”

“Certainly,” said Brown, handing it to him.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked at the lobby of the hotel.

“Twenty-five cents,” said the boy promptly, and he got it.

Brown registered on the books of the hotel as John A. Walker, of Montreal.

Mr. Walter Brown, of Rochester, was never more discouraged in his life than at the moment he wrote on the register the words, “John A. Walker, Montreal.” He had searched Montreal from one end to the other, but had found no trace of the man for whom he was looking. Yet, strange to say, when he raised his eyes from the register they met the face of William L. Staples, ex-cashier. It was lucky for Brown that Staples was looking at the words he had written, and not at himself, or he would have noticed Brown’s involuntary start of surprise, and flush of pleasure. It was also rather curious that Mr. Brown had a dozen schemes in his mind for getting acquainted with Staples when he met him, and yet that the first advance should be made by Staples himself.

“You are from Montreal,” said Mr. Staples, alias John Armstrong.

“That’s my town,” said Mr. Brown.

“What sort of a place is it in winter? Pretty lively?”

“Oh, yes. Good deal of a winter city, Montreal is. How do you mean, business or sport?”

“Well, both. Generally where there’s lots of business there’s lots of fun.”

“Yes, that’s so,” assented Brown. He did not wish to prolong the conversation. He had some plans to make, so he followed his luggage up to his room. It was evident that he would have to act quickly. Staples was getting tired of Toronto.

Two days after Brown had his plans completed. He met Staples one evening in the smoking-room of the hotel.

“Think of going to Montreal?” asked Brown.

“I did think of it. I don’t know, though. Are you in business there?”

“Yes. If you go, I could give you some letters of introduction