“Well, there’s another motto about ‘blood will tell,’” sneered Britt.

Vaniman stepped forward, honestly indignant, manfully resolute.  “Let me tell you, sir, that the letter you hold there—­no matter who wrote it—­concerns a good man who is dead.  He was the scapegoat of one of those big financiers.”  Vaniman’s lip curled.  “My father was railroaded to jail on a track greased with lies—­and died because the heart had been ripped out of him and—­”

“Hold on!  It won’t get us anywhere to try that case all over, Vaniman.  Let the letter stand as it is—­it was probably meant in the right spirit.  But I didn’t write it.  You and I better not fight over it.  I’ve shown, by laying it away and saying nothing, that I have a decent nature in me.  I hope I’ll never have any need to take it out of this desk again.”  He turned and shoved the paper back and locked the compartment.

“I think it is best for me to resign, Mr. Britt.”

“Don’t be a fool, young man.  Now that this thing is off our minds there’s a better understanding between us than ever.  I don’t think—­I hope”—­he surveyed Vaniman with leisure in which there was the suggestion of a threat—­“I’ll never have any occasion to take that letter out again.  Er—­ah—­” Britt joggled a watch charm and inquired, casually, “Would you plan on getting married if I boost your wages a little?”

In spite of an effort to control himself under Britt’s basilisk stare, Vaniman showed how much the query had jumped him.

“Of course, a chap like you has had his sweetheart down in the city,” pursued the inquisitor when the young man failed to answer.  “Must be one there now.”

“I have no sweetheart in the city, Mr. Britt.”

Then there was a longer silence in the room.  The cashier was not enduring inspection with an air that did credit to his promise to keep a secret.  Britt had made a breach in the wall of Vaniman’s mental defense by the means of that letter and its implied accusation; Britt was taking advantage of that breach.  Right then the young man was in a mood that would have prompted him to fling the truth and his defiance at Britt if the latter had kept on to the logical conclusion of his interrogation and had asked whether there was a sweetheart elsewhere; Vaniman had the feeling that by denying his love at that moment—­to that man of all others—­he would be dealing insult to Vona Harnden, as well as taking from her the protection that his affection gave her.

The attention of Britt was diverted from the quarry he was pursuing.

Outside Britt Block, Prophet Elias raised his voice in his regular “vesper service.”  It was his practice, on his way to Usial Britt’s cottage from his daily domiciliary visits, to halt in front of the bank and deliver a few texts.  The first one—­and the two men in the office listened—­was of the general tenor of those addressed to “Pharaoh.”  Said the Prophet, in resounding tones, “’As a roaring lion and a ranging bear, so is a wicked ruler over the poor people.’”