“Bomb?  Britt, I’m safe when I’m handled right, but if I’m handled wrong—­” Stickney did not finish his sentence; but his truculent air was pregnant with suggestion.

“Do you think you can blackmail me or this bank into making an exception in your case against our present policy?  Go ahead and talk, Stickney, and I’ll post the people of this town on your selfish tactics—­and you’ll see where you get off!”

Stickney did not argue the matter further.  He looked like a man who was disgusted because he had wasted so much time trying to get around a Tasper Britt stony “No!” He picked up his papers, stamped out, and slammed the door.

Britt shook himself, like a spiritualist medium trying to induce the trance state, and went back to his writing.

After a time a dull, thrumming sound attracted his attention.  It was something like Files’s dinner gong, whose summons Mr. Britt was wont to obey on the instant.

Mr. Britt was certain that it was not the gong; however, he glanced up at the clock on the wall, then he leaped out of his chair.  In his amazement he rapped out, “Well, I’ll be—­”

That clock was reliable; it marked the hour of twelve.

Mr. Britt had received convincing evidence that the rhapsody of composition makes morsels of hours and gulps days in two bites.

But he had completed five stanzas.  He concluded that they would do, though he had planned on five more.  Glancing over his composition, he decided that it might be better to leave the matter a bit vague, just as the poem left it at the end of the fifth stanza.  In the corridor that morning Vona had shown that too much precipitateness alarmed her; he might go too far in five more stanzas.  The five he had completed would give her a hint—­something to think of.  He pondered on that point while he stuck the paper into an envelope and sealed it.

Mr. Britt hurried the rest of his movements; Files’s kitchen conveniences were archaic, and the guest who was not on time got cold viands.

The lover who had begun to stir Miss Harnden’s thoughts into rather unpleasant roiliness of doubts came hustling into the bank, hat and coat on.

The girl and young Vaniman were spreading their respective lunches on the center table inside the grille.

Britt called Vona to the wicket.  He slipped the envelope through to her.  “There’s no hurry, you understand!  Take your time.  Read it in a slack moment—­later!  And”—­he hesitated and gulped—­“I want to see you after bank hours.  If you’ll step in—­I’ll be much obliged.”

She did not assent orally, nor show especial willingness to respond to his invitation.  She took the envelope and turned toward the table after Britt had left the wicket.

She walked to the window and gazed at the retreating back of Mr. Britt, and put the envelope into a velvet bag that was attached by slender chains to her girdle.

When she faced Vaniman, the young cashier was regarding her archly.