The Million-Dollar Suitcase

								

it over. Such a man doesn't speak the language of the group that was
there gathered. Just looking at him, old Dykeman rasped, without further
provocation,
"What's Captain Gilbert got to do with the private concerns of this
bank?"
As though the words--and their tone--had been a cordial invitation,
rather than an offensive challenge, the young man, who had still shown
no sign of an intention to come into the meeting at all, walked to the
table, drew out a chair and sat down.
"Pardon me, Mr. Dykeman," Cummings' voice had a wire edge on it, "the
Hanford block of stock in this bank has, as I think you very well know,
passed fully into Gilbert hands to-day."
"Thomas A. Gilbert," Dykeman was sparing of words.
"Captain Worth Gilbert's father," Whipple attempted pacification. "Mr.
Gilbert senior was with me till nearly noon, closing up the transfer. He
had hardly left when we discovered the shortage. After consultation,
Knapp and I got hold of Cummings. We wanted to get you gentlemen
here--have the capital of the bank represented, as nearly as we
could--and found that Mr. Gilbert had taken the twelve-forty-five train
for Santa Ysobel; so, as Captain Gilbert was to be found, we felt that
if we got him it would be practically--er--quite the same thing--"
Worth Gilbert had sat in the chair he selected, absolutely indifferent.
It was only when Dykeman, hanging to his point, spoke again, that I saw
a quick gleam of blue fire come into those hawk eyes under the slant
brow. He gave a sort of detached attention as Dykeman sputtered
indecently.
"Not the same thing at all! Sons can't always speak for fathers, any
more than fathers can always speak for sons. In this case--"
He broke off with his ugly old mouth open. Worth Gilbert, the son of
divorced parents, with a childhood that had divided time between a
mother in the East and a California father, surveyed the parchment-like
countenance leisurely after the crackling old voice was hushed. Finally
he grunted inarticulately (I'm sorry I can't find a more imposing word
for a returned hero); and answered all objections with,
"I'm here now--and here I stay. What's the excitement?"
"I was just asking Mr. Boyne to tell you," Whipple came in smoothly.
No one else offered any objections. What I repeated, briefly, amounted
to this:
Directly after closing time to-day--which was noon, as this was
Saturday--Knapp, the cashier of the bank, had discovered a heavy
shortage, and it was decided on a quick investigation that Edward
Clayte, one of the paying tellers, had walked out with the money in a
suitcase. I was immediately called in on what appeared a wide-open
trail, with me so close behind Clayte that you'd have said there was
nothing to it. I followed him--and the suitcase--to his apartment at the
St. Dunstan, found he'd got there at twenty-five minutes to one, and I
barely three quarters of an hour after.