“How are you making it, Frank?” the president inquired, with solicitude.

A sympathetic observer would have found a suggestion of captives, caged and hopeless, in the demeanor of the cashier and the bookkeeper behind the grille.

Vaniman peered through the lattice into the gloom where the callers stood and shook his head.  “I’m not making it well at all, sir.”

“But you must have some idea of what the trouble is.”

“There’s trouble, all right, Mr. Britt—­plenty of it.  There’s no use in my denying that.  But I’m not far enough along to give any sensible explanation.”

The president showed real anxiety.  “What do you say for a guess?”

“If you are asking me only for a guess, I should say that the ghost of Jim the Penman has been amusing himself with these books,” replied the cashier; he was bitter; he was showing the effects of worry that was aggravated by lack of sleep.

“Aha!  Plainly not far enough along for a sensible explanation,” rumbled Examiner Starr.

“A knave is usually ready with a good story when he has been taken by surprise.  Honesty isn’t as handy with the tongue.  I can only say that something—­I don’t say somebody—­has put these books into a devil of a mess, and I’m doing my best to straighten them.”

“I wish you luck,” affirmed Starr.  “I’ve been talking with your president and he says everything good about your faithfulness, and about how you have been doing guard duty in the bank of late.  Perhaps you’re a sleepwalker, Vaniman,” he added, with heavy humor.

“I feel like one now,” retorted the cashier.  “I was awake all last night.”

“Ah!  Doing what?” asked the examiner, politely, but without interest.

The question hinted that in the talk in Britt’s office the president had refrained from mention of Barnes, the broker.  Vaniman decided instantly to respect Britt’s reticence; the president had shown much caution the night before, even in regard to Squire Hexter.  “Oh, merely running around on a little business of my own, Mr. Starr.”

Britt did not assist by any reference to his own share in the business.  “We may as well start along toward the tavern, Starr.”  The president took two steps toward the grille and addressed Vona.  “I’m going to take Mr. Starr to the show this evening.  I want him to see what smart girls we have in Egypt.”

Vona did not reply.  She turned to Vaniman with the air of one who has suddenly been reminded of something forgotten in the stress of affairs.  But before she had an opportunity to speak there was a tramping of hasty feet in the corridor and her father came in through the door that had been left ajar by Britt.  “Good evening, all!” hailed Mr. Harnden, cheerily.  “But, see here, Vona, my dear girl, we have been waiting supper a whole half hour.  You’ve got scant time to eat and get on your stage togs.”

“This has been a pretty busy day in the bank, Harnden,” explained Britt.  “Meet Mr. Starr, the bank examiner!”