Part 30 (1/2)

”I didn't give it out.”

”It is all done in your particularly picturesque style,” declared Emerson, angrily. ”Alton swears he knows nothing about it, so you must have done it. It is too nearly correct to have come from a stranger.”

”Well?” inquired Fraser, quietly.

”The harm is done, but I want to know who is to blame.” When the other made no answer except to stare at him curiously, he flamed up, ”Why don't you confess?”

For the first time during their acquaintance, ”Fingerless” Fraser seemed at a loss for words; but whether for shame or some other motive, his companion was unable to tell. His nature was so warped that his emotions expressed themselves in ways not always easy to follow, and now he merely remarked, with apparent sullenness:

”I'm certainly a hot favorite with you.” He clambered stiffly back into bed and turned his defiant face to the wall, nor would he meet his accuser's eyes or open his lips, even when Boyd flung out of the room, convinced that he was the culprit.

All that day Emerson waited fearfully for some word from Hilliard, but night came without it; and when several days in succession had pa.s.sed without a sign from the banker, he breathed more easily. He had already begun to a.s.sure himself that, after all, the exposure would have no effect, when one evening the call he dreaded came. A telephone message summoned him to the bank at eleven o'clock the following morning.

”That means trouble,” he grimly told George.

”Maybe not,” the big fisherman replied. ”If Hilliard took any stock in the story, it seems like he'd have jumped you the next day.”

”Our machinery is ordered. You realize what it will mean if he backs water now?”

”Sure! We'll have to go to some other bank.”

”Humph! I'll wring Fraser's neck,” muttered Emerson. ”We have troubles enough without any new ones.”

It was with no little anxiety that he asked for the banker at the appointed hour, and was shown into an anteroom, with the announcement:

”Mr. Hilliard is busy; he wishes you to wait.”

Inside the gla.s.s part.i.tion Boyd heard a woman's voice and Hilliard's laughter. He took some comfort in the thought that the banker was in a good-humor, at least; but, being too nervous to sit still, he stood at the window, gazing with vacant eyes at the busy street crowds. Facing him, across the way, was a bulletin-board in front of a newspaper office; and, after a time, he noted idly among its various items of information the announcement that the mail steamer _Queen_ had arrived at midnight from Skagway. He wondered why Cherry had not written. Surely she must be anxious to know his progress. He should have advised her of his whereabouts.

The door to Hilliard's office opened, and he heard the rustle of a woman's dress; then his own name spoken--”Come in, Mr. Emerson.”

His attention centred on the approaching interview, he did not glance toward the departing visitor until she stopped suddenly at the outer door, and came straight toward him with outstretched hands.

”Boyd!”

He checked himself, and turned to face Cherry Malotte.

”Why, Cherry,” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, ”what in the world--” He took her two hands in his, and she laughed up into his face. ”In the name of Heaven, where did you come from?”

”I arrived last night on the _Queen_,” she said. ”Oh, I'm glad to see you!”

”But what brings you to the States? I thought you were in Kal--”

”Sh-h!” She laid a finger on her lips, with a glance over her shoulder at the door to the inner office. ”I'll tell you about it later.”

”Mr. Hilliard will see you now, sir,” the attendant announced to Emerson.

”I must talk to you right away!” Boyd exclaimed, hurriedly. ”I won't be long. Can you wait?”

”Certainly; I'll wait right here. Only hurry, hurry!”