"I couldn't understand it," went on the cashier. His voice sounded like
the clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenly
modulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. "I thought
Porter knew the money was here to meet the note," said Lane, still
speaking, "but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up the
papers. I found one thousand dollars missing!" He was looking steadily
at Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. There
was accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze.
Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked in
erratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him;
the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; not a
sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken by
fear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter's
being given to him. The cashier waited for Mortimer to say something;
then he spoke again, with reproach in his voice.
"I at once sent a messenger to ask you to return from your home at
Emerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had not been
there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you were
yesterday?"
"I was at Gravesend, sir--at the races," answered Mortimer, defiantly.
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