Mr. Buckley, president of the Stockmen’s National—­a stout, elderly man, looking like a farmer dressed for Sunday—­heard Roy from his private office at the rear and called him.

“Has Major Kingman come down to the bank yet?” he asked of the boy.

“Yes, sir, he was just driving up as I left,” said Roy.

“I want you to take him a note.  Put it into his own hands as soon as you get back.”

Mr. Buckley sat down and began to write.

Roy returned and handed to Major Kingman the envelope containing the note.  The major read it, folded it, and slipped it into his vest pocket.  He leaned back in his chair for a few moments as if he were meditating deeply, and then rose and went into the vault.  He came out with the bulky, old-fashioned leather note case stamped on the back in gilt letters, “Bills Discounted.”  In this were the notes due the bank with their attached securities, and the major, in his rough way, dumped the lot upon his desk and began to sort them over.

By this time Nettlewick had finished his count of the cash.  His pencil fluttered like a swallow over the sheet of paper on which he had set his figures.  He opened his black wallet, which seemed to be also a kind of secret memorandum book, made a few rapid figures in it, wheeled and transfixed Dorsey with the glare of his spectacles.  That look seemed to say:  “You’re safe this time, but—­”

“Cash all correct,” snapped the examiner.  He made a dash for the individual bookkeeper, and, for a few minutes there was a fluttering of ledger leaves and a sailing of balance sheets through the air.

“How often do you balance your pass-books?” he demanded, suddenly.

“Er—­once a month,” faltered the individual bookkeeper, wondering how many years they would give him.

“All right,” said the examiner, turning and charging upon the general bookkeeper, who had the statements of his foreign banks and their reconcilement memoranda ready.  Everything there was found to be all right.  Then the stub book of the certificates of deposit.  Flutter—­flutter—­zip—­zip—­check!  All right.  List of over-drafts, please.  Thanks.  H’m-m.  Unsigned bills of the bank, next.  All right.

Then came the cashier’s turn, and easy-going Mr. Edlinger rubbed his nose and polished his glasses nervously under the quick fire of questions concerning the circulation, undivided profits, bank real estate, and stock ownership.

Presently Nettlewick was aware of a big man towering above him at his elbow—­a man sixty years of age, rugged and hale, with a rough, grizzled beard, a mass of gray hair, and a pair of penetrating blue eyes that confronted the formidable glasses of the examiner without a flicker.

“Er—­Major Kingman, our president—­er—­Mr. Nettlewick,” said the cashier.