Chapter 2

By way of answer Jack pulled out his watch and compared it with the
wall clock. The glance was not complimentary to Fisher’s battered
time-piece. Fisher purpled with rage.

“You —- —-! Don’t give me any of your lip!”

“Who do you think you are?” said Jack coolly. The words were fatally
ready to his tongue. “You little two-by-four sash and blind maker with
your business in your wife’s name! Better pay your bills before you
talk that way to honest men!”

Behind the fright in the eyes of the thin office-boy and the pale
typist, gleamed a wondering delight. Never had such words been heard
in that place!

“Get out of here! Get out of here!” roared Fisher on the verge of
apoplexy. “Get out before I throw you out!”

“As to that,” said Jack, “you’re not man enough,” and he took a step
nearer the boss.

Fisher precipitately retired into his private office, slamming the door
behind him. The office boy tittered, and clapped a scared hand over
his mouth. Jack turned on his heel, and coolly lit a cigarette–lit it
and blew a whole cloud of smoke, there in those sacred precincts! The
eyes of the other two regarded him with a kind of adoration.

From behind the partition Fisher was still shouting: “Get out! You’re
fired!”

“Much obliged,” said Jack. “It was worth it.”

But even while he spake the brave words his heart was sinking like a
stone in deep water. It was Wednesday, and his salary was always spent
in advance of course. All he possessed in the world was a dollar
twenty and his watch–fortunately out of hock for the time being. By
this time, he thought Fisher was probably sorry too, and would take him
back at a word of contrition–but with those admiring eyes on him, he
could not speak it.

“So long, Kids,” he said airily, and started for the door.

“Oh, wait a minute,” said the boy. “Here’s a letter for you this
morning.”

Jack thrust it carelessly into his pocket and went on down-stairs. At
the street door he stopped at a loss. Turned loose on the street at
nine o’clock of a working morning, which way was one to turn? He
glanced across the street again, the window was still vacant. Anyway,
he couldn’t very well see her, jobless as he was. Better just drop of
sight. This thought cost him a shrewd pang. He started walking
quickly in the direction opposite to that whence she would presently
come.

He remembered the letter and took it out. Letters were not so frequent
in his life that he could afford to disdain them. This was a business
envelope, large, square, and made of thick, fine paper. “National New
York Bank” was neatly embossed on the flap. It was addressed in
long-hand, an untidy but powerful scrawl.

“Some high-class ad,” thought Jack. “Want to sell me bonds, I
suppose.” He chuckled with bitter humor.

Inside he found this communication in the same hand:

“Dear Mr. Norman:

“Will you please call me up at my office to-morrow morning. I shall
arrive there about nine-thirty. The number of my private phone is —-
Broad. You will not find it in the book.

“Very truly yours,
“Walter Delamare.”

Jack, being a true American youth, regarded this skeptically. “What
kind of a con is he handing me?” he thought. “Who the deuce is Walter
Delamare?”

The name rang familiarly in his ears. He glanced at the note head
again. Under the name of the bank was printed: “Office of the
President.” Of course! Walter Delamare, President of the National New
York Bank. His name was in the papers every day. It wielded a magic
influence in the nation.

Jack still suspected a hoax of some kind, though the expensive note
paper and the scrawly, characteristic hand were impressive. He
examined the latter with fresh care. It was surely real handwriting,
not process work.

“Oh well, it’s worth a nickel for a telephone call,” he thought. “I
have nothing to lose.”

He had nearly half an hour to kill before nine-thirty, and no
twenty-five minutes ever passed more slowly. He walked down to Wall
street and had a look at the outside of the National New York Bank, an
imposing colonnade a whole block long. He circumnavigated it three
times, and at nine thirty-one, precisely, went into a cigar store and
called up the number that had been given him.

After a due interval he heard a voice at the other end of the wire that
certainly sounded like that of a man of mark–crisp, serene, potent;
humorous and kindly, too.

“Mr. Norman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Delamare. You are prompt. Can you come down to see me this
morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you come right away? Later I shall be very busy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Better taxi down. And by the way, it would be better if you
sent in an assumed name. I will explain why when I see you. Call
yourself–let me see–call yourself Mr. Robinson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I shall be expecting you. Good-by.”

Jack issued from the telephone booth a little dazed. A great captain
of finance asking him, the humble bookkeeper, to call! Putting Jack on
an equal footing by referring to himself as “Delamare”! A mystery
suggested by the use of an assumed name! What could it all mean! On
the one hand the skeptic in Jack whispered: “Some one is putting up a
game on you!” On the other hand the dear hidden ego in us all that
only needs a little appreciation to show its head said: “Why shouldn’t
Walter Delamare have private business with you as well as anybody?”

Jack had only to walk across the street to the bank. The argument
within him showed itself in a kind of defiant sheepishness as he passed
the great portal and found himself under the far-flung vaulted ceiling.
It had been designed to impress, and impressive it was. With its rare
marbles and mural paintings it was more like a palace than a place of
sober business. It was not yet the opening hour, but many elegant
clerks were already starting to work behind the brass grills. Shabby
Jack eyed their cravats and fine linen wistfully.

He asked one of the uniformed attendants the way to Mr. Delamare’s
office, half expecting a roar of laughter to go up. But nothing of the
sort occurred. He next found himself opposed by a silvery-haired old
gentleman whose exquisite courtesy was the same to all.

“Whom do you wish to see?”

“Mr. Delamare.”

“Mr. Delamare can be seen only by appointment.”

“I have an appointment.”

The courteous old gentleman permitted himself a glance of surprise.
“What name shall I say?”

“Mr. Robinson.”

“Very good, sir.”

He returned with an air of slightly heightened respect. “Please step
this way, sir.”

“It is all right,” thought Jack. “Nobody is hoaxing me.”

He followed his conductor down a mahogany and plate glass corridor.

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