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Griggsby, a woman at work mending carpet on the seventh floor which is his saw him come out of the elevator carrying it, and let himself into his room. There the trail ends." "Ends?" As my voice halted young Gilbert's word came like a bullet. "The trail can't end unless the man was there." "Or the suitcase," little old Sillsbee quavered, and Worth Gilbert gave him a swift, half-humorous glance.
There was a long pause, broken finally by Whipple. "He never smoked," said the bank president. "Occasionally he did," contradicted Knapp, and the pause continued till I asked, "Any peculiarities of clothing?" "Oh, yes," said Whipple. "Very neat. Usually blue serge." "But sometimes gray," added Knapp, heavily, and old Sillsbee piped in, "I've seen that feller wear pin-check; I know I have."
Dykeman's mere look was a call for the ambulance; Anson slumped in his chair; little old Sillsbee sat twisted away so that his face was in shadow, but the knuckles showed bone white where his hand gripped the table top.
He paused a moment to estimate. "The capital is practically represented. Speaking as your legal advisor, I am obliged to say that you should not let the bank take such a risk as Mr. Whipple suggests. You are threatened with a staggering loss, but, after all, a high percent of money lost by defalcations is recovered made good wholly or in part." "Nearly a million dollars!" croaked old Sillsbee.
A description of Edward Clayte? Every man at the table even old Sillsbee sat up and opened his mouth to give one; but Knapp beat them to it, with, "Clayte's worked in this bank eight years. We all know him. You can get just as many good descriptions as there are people on our payroll or directors in this room and plenty more at the St. Dunstan, I'll be bound." "You think so?" I said wearily.
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