MR. CHECKYNSHAW RUSHES.
Mr. Checkynshaw felt that he had fully vindicated his personal dignity,
and that of the well-known house whose head he was. The bank president
he met in the entry did not think so, but believed that a person of
such eminent gravity ought to call a policeman, instead of making
himself ridiculous by resorting to violence. The banker explained, and
then returned to his office. He was alone; and, seating himself in his
cushioned chair, he gave himself up to the reflections of the moment,
whatever they were.
Whether the grave charges and the angry threats of Mr. Fitzherbert
Wittleworth were the subject of his thoughts was known only to himself;
but as he reflected, the muscles of his mouth moved about, his brow
contracted, and he seemed to be mentally defending himself from the
charges, and repelling the threats. Certainly the bold accusation of
the banker's late clerk had produced an impression, and stirred up the
anger of the great man; but it was very impolitic for the discharged
clerk to "beard the lion in his den."
The safe in the private office contained the valuable papers of the
banker, while those of the firm whose head he was were placed in the
vaults of the great banking-room. He kept the key of this safe himself.
If it ever went into the hands of the clerk, it was only to bring it
from the lock-drawer in the vaults; he was never trusted to deposit it
there. Mr. Checkynshaw did not look at the safe till he had thoroughly
digested the affair which had just transpired. When he was ready to go
home to dinner, just before three o'clock, he went to the safe to lock
it, and secure the key where prying curiosity could not obtain it.
It was not in the door, where he had left it; but this did not startle
him. His thoughts appeared to be still abstracted by the subject which
had occupied them since the affray, and he was walking mechanically
about the office. He went to the safe as much from the force of habit
as for any reason, for he always secured it when he was about to leave.
"Charles!" he called, raising one of the ground-glass windows between
the office and the banking-room.
The door opened, and one of the younger clerks presented himself.
"Bring me the key of this safe from the drawer in the vault."
Charles bowed, and Mr. Checkynshaw continued to walk back and forth,
absorbed in thought.
"The key of the safe is not in the drawer, sir," replied the clerk.
The banker tried the safe door, and then felt in all his pockets. The
safe was locked, but he had not the key. He went to the vault himself,
but with no better success than the clerk had had.
"The puppy!" muttered the banker. "He has stolen that key!"
Mr. Checkynshaw's lips were compressed, and his teeth were set tight
together. He paced the room more rapidly than before.
"Fudge!" exclaimed he, after he had worked himself into a state of
partial frenzy, as the hard muscles of his face suddenly relaxed, and
something like a smile rested upon his lips. "He couldn't have done
it."
Certainly not. The banker had not opened the safe till after his return
from the barber's shop, where he had reproved his clerk, and Fitz did
not go near the safe during the sharp interview in the office.
"Burnet," said the banker, going to the open window.
This time the elderly man, to whom Leo Maggimore had applied, presented
himself.
"Have you seen the key of my safe?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw.
"No, sir."
"Where is it, then?"
"I do not know, sir," replied Burnet, whose communications were always
"yea, yea; nay, nay."
"I have discharged Fitz."
Burnet bowed.
"He was saucy."
Burnet bowed again.
"I kicked him out for his impudence."
Burnet bowed a third time.
"My key is gone."
Burnet waited.
"But the safe is locked."
Burnet glanced at the safe.
"Who has been in my office?"
"A boy, sir."
"Who?"
"I don't know, sir; he asked for you. I sent him to your office."
"That was the barber's boy."
Burnet bowed: he never wasted words; never left his desk to see a row
or a military company, and would not have done so if an earthquake had
torn up the pavement of State Street, so long as the banking-house of
Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. was undisturbed.
"Who else?" asked the banker.
"A man, sir."
"Who?"
"I don't know; he entered by your private door; the boy and the man
went out together."
"Send for the safe people."
Burnet bowed, and retired. In half an hour two men from the safe
manufactory appeared. They opened the iron door, and the banker turned
pale when he found that his valuable papers had been abstracted. The
three hundred and fifty dollars which "Mr. Hart" had taken was of no
consequence, compared with the documents that were missing; for they
were his private papers, on which other eyes than his own must not
look.
The safe men fitted a new key, altering the wards of the lock, so that
the old one would not open the door. What remained of the papers were
secured; but those that were gone were of more importance than those
that were left. Mr. Checkynshaw groaned in spirit. The threats of Mr.
Fitzherbert Wittleworth seemed to have some weight now, and that young
gentleman suddenly became of more consequence than he had ever been
before. Fitz could not have stolen these papers himself, but he might
have been a party to the act.
"Burnet!" called the banker.
The old clerk came again. Nothing ever excited or disturbed him, and
that was what made him so reliable as a financial clerk and cashier. He
never made any mistakes, never overpaid any one, and his cash always
"balanced."
"What shall I do? My private papers have been stolen!" said the banker,
nervously. "Who was the man that came out of the office?"
"I don't know, sir."
"What was he like?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.
"Well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish."
"And the boy?"
"Fourteen or fifteen--looked well."
"Send for Andre Maggimore, the barber."
Burnet bowed and retired. Charles was sent to the saloon of Cutts &
Stropmore; but it was four o'clock, and Andre had gone to dress the
hair of Elinora Checkynshaw. The banker was annoyed, vexed, angry. He
wanted to see the boy who had left the office with the man
"well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish." He did not know where Leo lived, and
the barber had no business to be where he could not put his hand on him
when wanted. Impatiently he drew on his overcoat, rushed out of the
office, and rushed into the shop of Cutts & Stropmore. Mr. Cutts did
not know where Andre lived, and Mr. Stropmore did not know. Andre was
always at the shop when he was wanted there, and they had no occasion
to know where he lived. Probably they had known; if they had, they had
forgotten. It was somewhere in High Street, or in some street or court
that led out of High Street, or somewhere near High Street; at any
rate, High Street was in the direction.
There was nothing in this very definite information that afforded Mr.
Checkynshaw a grain of comfort. He was excited; but, without telling
the barbers what the matter was, he rushed up State Street, up Court
Street, up Pemberton Square, to his residence. He wanted a carriage;
but of course there was no carriage within hailing distance, just
because he happened to want one. He reached his home out of breath; but
then his key to the night-latch would not fit, just because he was
excited and in a hurry.
He rang the bell furiously. Lawrence, the man servant, was eating his
dinner, and he stopped to finish his pudding. The banker rang again;
but Lawrence, concluding the person at the door was a pedler, with
needles or a new invention to sell, finished the pudding--pedlers ring
with so much more unction than other people. The banker rang again.
Fortunately for the banker, more fortunately for himself, Lawrence had
completely disposed of the pudding, and went to the door.
"What are you about, you blockhead? Why don't you open the door when I
ring?" stormed the banker.
"I think the bell must be out of order, sir," pleaded Lawrence, who had
heard it every time it rang.
"Go and get a carriage, quick! If you are gone five minutes I'll
discharge you!" added the great man, fiercely, as he rushed into the
parlor.
"You are late to dinner," said Mrs. Checkynshaw.
"Don't talk to me about dinner! Where is Elinora?"
"Why, what is the matter?" asked the lady, not a little alarmed by the
violent manner of the husband.
"Matter enough! Where is Elinora? Answer me, and don't be all day about
it!"
"In her dressing-room. Andre, the hair-dresser, is with her."
Mr. Checkynshaw rushed up stairs, and rushed into the apartment where
Andre was curling the hair of a pale, but rather pretty young lady of
twelve. His abrupt appearance and his violent movements startled the
nervous miss, so that, in turning her head suddenly, she brought one of
her ears into contact with the hot curling-tongs with which the barber
was operating upon her flowing locks.
"O, dear! Mercy! You have killed me, Andre!" screamed Elinora, as her
father bolted into the room.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Checkynshaw," pleaded Andre.
"You have burned me to death! How you frightened me, pa!" gasped the
young lady.
"Mind what you are about, Andre!" exclaimed the banker, sternly, as he
examined the ear, which was not badly damaged.
"The young lady moved her head suddenly. It was really not my fault,
sir," added Andre.
"Yes, it was your fault, Andre," replied Elinora, petulantly. "You mean
to burn me to death."
"I assure you, mademoiselle--"
"Where do you live, Andre?" demanded the banker, interrupting him.
"Phillimore Court, No. 3," replied the barber.
"I want you to go there with me at once," bustled the banker. "Is your
boy--What's his name?"
"Leo, sir."
"Leo. Is he at home?"
"I think he is. Do you wish to see him, sir?"
"I do. Come with me, and be quick!"
"Leo would not be able to serve you, sir; he cannot leave his school."
"I want to see him; my safe has been robbed, and your boy was with the
man who did it."
"Leo!" gasped the barber, dropping his hot iron upon the floor, and
starting back, as though a bolt of lightning had blasted him.
"Yes; but come along! I tell you I'm in a hurry!" snapped Mr.
Checkynshaw.
"He can't go now, pa," interposed the daughter. "He must finish
dressing my hair."
"He shall return in a short time, Elinora," replied the banker.
"He shall not go!" added she, decidedly, and with an emphasis worthy of
an only daughter.
"Leo!" murmured the poor barber, apparently crushed by the terrible
charge against the boy.
"No. 3 Phillimore Court, you say," continued the banker, as he moved
towards the door, yielding to the whim of the spoiled child.
The barber did not answer. His eyes rolled up in his head; he staggered
and fell upon the floor. Elinora shrieked in terror, and was hurried
from the room by her father.