"Don't weep. It isn't going to do us a bit of good. The man is driving
me crazy. I tell you there's only one thing to do."
"And that is----"
"Confess."
"Oh-h-h!"
He laughed bitterly. "Don't worry. They'll never know you had anything
to do with it. You get the money out in the morning. Bring it to me
just as it stands--wrapped in brown paper. I'll carry it to old man
Warren. I'll offer to solve the mystery and see that the money is
returned in exchange for a promise of immunity."
"Will he keep his promise?"
"Absolutely. He's that sort. He'd not prosecute anyway. It would injure
the bank's reputation. A bank always prefers to hush up this sort
of thing. They prosecute only when it's been very flagrant or when
they have to secure a conviction so that the bonding company will be
responsible for their loss. So, to-morrow----"
She rested her head briefly against his shoulder. "You're right, Cliff.
And I'll be glad when it's all over. So very, very glad. I've been
afraid, dear."
She delivered the money to him at eleven o'clock the following morning.
It was Saturday; the bank closed at twelve. He saw the eyes of Jim
Hanvey blinking accusingly at him through the morning, and found
himself trembling. Suppose Hanvey should accuse him at this moment,
when he was on the verge of confession?
Noon. The great doors of the bank were closed. Cliff locked his cage,
tucked the brown paper package under his arm and closeted himself
with the president. During the walk across the lobby he had felt the
horrible knowing eyes of the detective fastened upon him, leechlike.
The scene with Robert Warren developed just as he had anticipated. The
president readily promised immunity, the cash was produced and counted.
Warren was shocked and genuinely grieved. He was considerate enough to
refrain from questioning as to the identity of the accomplice, although
Cliff felt that the man knew.
Of course, he said, Cliff could consider himself discharged. The matter
would never become known; the bank sought no such notoriety. Mr.
Warren trusted that this would be a lesson to Cliff; he was sure that
conscience had wrung this confession from the young man. Cliff acted
his part adequately.
But all the time his heart was singing. A load had been removed. His
fear of Jim Hanvey had turned into a deep, passionate, personal hatred.
He felt that he'd like to fasten his fingers in that fat, flabby throat.
He swung out of the president's office. The loss of the hundred
thousand dollars meant little as against the relief he experienced in
the freedom from fear of those mesmeric, expressionless eyes. As he
stepped into the lobby he felt them fastened upon him.
Cliff couldn't resist the impulse. Pent-up emotion demanded expression
in words. Cliff knew that he must tell this heavy-set, slow-moving man
that he had been outwitted. He strode across the lobby and pulled up
short before the detective.
"Well, Hanvey, you're too late."