Chapter 14

As the police withdrew from in front of Ward & Co.'s office, the crowd returned. It flowed into the corridor of the office building, a sullen, silent mob, full of repressed anger that required only the slightest spark to transform it into a roaring flame. They massed about the locked door, gazing at the lettered panel as at a corpse.

Out in the street newsboys were crying the failure of the banking house. They did a brisk business. Mourners everywhere are feverishly anxious to read of the deceased, his achievements and his failure and his demise. And these mourners, gathered at the funeral of an institution that held for them so vital an interest, devoured every detail of its expired life.

Inside the office, the clerks worked with their customary deliberation, tallying the accounts for the receiver. No tentative statement of assets and liability had been announced by the court's representative. He could have prepared a fairly accurate statement and posted it on the door. But he was a charitable man and wished to spare the depositors further anguish. Give them time to recover from the first great shock before inflicting a greater one, he argued. So he postponed the evil moment when he must reveal the wretched condition of the institution.

Each time the door opened and a messenger left, the crowd set on him beseeching information of the financial condition of the private bank. But the messengers had nothing to reveal.

As invariably happens with crowds, the dullness and depression wears off after a while, exhausts itself, so to speak, and is succeeded gradually by a blind resentment directed against the first object which offers itself as a handy target. A sort of mob intoxication sets in, as unreasoning as it frequently is destructive.

And so the crowd now began to hurl maledictions on the innocent head of the receiver. As if he had brought on the catastrophe!

"Why don't he tell us where we stand?" demanded one obstreperous creditor. "Smash in the door! Let's find out what's become of our money!"

"He's in cohoots with thieves!" exclaimed another. "They're all a lot of crooks! What one has left behind the other'll take."

Britz and Greig, mingling with the crowd, neither encouraged nor discouraged the destructive fury which they saw gathering. They knew the psychology of mobs. It is brave with collective courage, but timorous, hesitant, individually. In the absence of a leader its anger would pass like a storm overhead. If a leader should appear, it would be time to interfere; and then it would be necessary to do so before the crowd got into action.

A half hour passed with nothing more exciting than the frantic appeals of the janitor of the building for police protection. Failing to obtain it he implored the depositors to leave. He might as well have appealed to the ocean tide to change its course.

Britz consulted his watch.

"I wonder whether I've miscalculated this time?" he remarked.

Greig, having but a vague idea of Britz's plan, vouchsafed no reply. He remained close to the other's elbow.

Another ten minutes passed and Britz began to look uneasily at the door. A shade of disappointment crossed his face, and did not go unobserved by his assistant.

The crowd was growing unwieldy. It began to exert a slow, steady pressure against the door of Ward's office. The mob was composed entirely of creditors, for the merely curious had grown tired and departed hours ago. Those who remained were beyond discouragement; they hung on with the persistency of despair.

"Oh, let's tear down the blamed door!" shouted someone in a voice more determined than had been heard thus far. "I'm not going home to-day until I learn just what's happened to my money."

"Yes, break it down!" echoed a dozen voices.

But suddenly the attention of the mob was diverted from the door. A woman had torn into the corridor and was struggling frantically to make a lane for herself. There was something compelling about her, something in her pale, distraught face that commanded the respectful surrender of the crowd. They made a passage for her, through which she passed hurriedly.

"Mrs. Collins--Ward's sister!" said Britz aloud.

The words penetrated the serried ranks of creditors like an electric spark. Instantly their attitude changed. Closing in on her, they forced her against the door of the office as though she were a lay figure. All their better instincts, all their upbringing was forgotten in the inarticulate fury aroused by her presence.

She stood, palpitant, a dull stare in her eyes, her frame throbbing violently.

"Where's your brother?" someone broke the silence. "Where is he? Where's our money? You were interested in the bank! You were one of the owners. What did you do with our money?"

At first she seemed not to have heard. Then, a wave of understanding swept over her, and she lifted her hand for silence.

"I have the money," she cried. "You shall all be paid in full."

The crowd moved back, abashed. A silence, the hush of tense anticipation, fell on them.

"Every dollar will be repaid," she assured them. "I promise it."

Her voice, though softly modulated, had a penetrating quality which carried it to the hearing of those in the office. Someone opened the door and she entered. The crowd, evidently scenting some new deceit swarmed in after her.

"What assurance have we that we're going to get the money?" one of them demanded.

Even to her agitated mind it became evident that an antagonistic spirit animated the crowd. After their first surprise, they refused to extend unqualified credence to her words.

"You have my word," she said impressively. Then, as her eyes met the derisive smiles with which her promise was received, she discarded the discretion which otherwise she might have maintained. "I have inherited the money with which I shall pay you," she informed them. "I am the chief beneficiary under Mr. Whitmore's will. The fortune which comes to me shall go toward repaying you."

Her earnestness, the obvious honesty of her purpose, began to exert a favorable influence on the listeners. Despair had deadened the consideration to which she was entitled as a woman; hope now galvanized it into life. The crowd began to draw back sheepishly, as if ashamed of its inconsiderate conduct. Taking advantage of the favorable turn, Britz and Greig stepped forward.

"If you believe this lady, please leave the office and permit her to see the receiver," Britz appealed to the crowd's chivalry.

They filed out of the office, slowly, reluctantly, as if not quite believing what they had heard, yet not daring to display their doubt openly. She might change her mind if they remained; so, out of prudence, they withdrew.

When the last of them had disappeared through the door, Britz turned the key in the lock and advanced toward the woman. She had dropped into a chair which the receiver had thoughtfully provided. At her side, regarding her with an expression of puzzled interest, stood a medium-sized, stooped man, with iron-gray hair and beard, whose cold, steely eyes looked down on her as if toying to read her inmost thoughts.

"Why, Mrs. Collins, what does it mean?" he inquired.

She met his gaze steadily, with a faint smile.

"It was very kind of you, Mr. Luckstone, to telephone," she murmured gratefully.

"Telephone!" he ejaculated. "I don't understand."

"Didn't you have one of your men 'phone me? He told me of the will--that I had inherited Mr. Whitmore's estate."

Luckstone turned his searching eyes on her.

"Mr. Whitmore's will was drawn by one of his other attorneys," he said. "I never saw it. It was entrusted to Mr. Beard's keeping. It vanished on the night of his arrest and has not been found."

A shiver ran down the woman's form. The blood seemed to drain from her face; a new terror gripped her heart.

"I have been fooled," she moaned, "Everything is lost. Money, honor,--everything! I cannot keep my promise to these men."

"Perhaps you simply mistook the source of the message," ventured the lawyer cautiously.

Moved by the woman's distress, Britz came forward, the missing will in his hand.

"Mrs. Collins is right as to the inheritance," he said. "I have the will. You may read it." He passed the document to the lawyer, who read it with undisguised satisfaction.

"Yes, Mr. Whitmore has left you the residue of his estate," he affirmed, addressing the woman. "There will be more than sufficient to meet all the obligations of the banking house. Having some knowledge of Mr. Whitmore's holdings, I feel confident in saying the estate will amount to upward of ten million dollars."

The news did not revive Mrs. Collins's spirits. For days now, every new expectation had been succeeded by a new disappointment. This woman, who through all the years of her harrowing married life, had never faltered in her conduct; who had never wavered in the high standard of her womanhood; whose actions had ever been inspired by the noblest ideals of her sex;--this woman had been selected by fate as the victim of its unrelenting wrath.

The rapid succession of misfortunes which had been visited on her had made her wary of anything that savored of a more favorable providence. So she received the confirmation of her inheritance with a self-pitying stare, as if it must, of necessity, hide some new form of anguish.

"Don't you realize what it means?" Luckstone tried to encourage her. "It means that the bank is saved. All the depositors will be paid. You are wealthy again--far wealthier than ever before." Checking himself suddenly, the lawyer turned toward Britz. "I wonder who telephoned to Mrs. Collins?" he asked.

"I took the liberty of using your name," said Britz.

The lawyer tried to freeze him with a glance.

"And who are you, sir?" he asked icily.

"I am a detective attached to the Central Office."

"Where did you get this will?"

"I don't care to go into that matter now," snapped Britz.

"Perhaps you will inform me why you presumed to use my name in telephoning to Mrs. Collins?" persisted the lawyer.

"Because I wanted to see just what she would do."

"I hope your curiosity is satisfied."

"Quite satisfied."

"Then there is no reason for your remaining," said Luckstone. "I am the attorney for the receiver, and I am sure he does not require your presence."

Britz was on the point of making a sharp retort, but checked himself. He recalled the stern purpose of his visit, a purpose which he would execute relentlessly, yet not without feelings of the utmost pity. For the iron was hot, it was time to strike.

"I shall go," remarked the detective, "but I shall have to ask this lady to accompany me to Police Headquarters."

It required some effort of will to say it. The suffering which she endured had aroused in him a compassion to which he would have found it easy to yield. But having repelled the charitable impulse that threatened to wreck his carefully devised plan, he said with added firmness:

"I am ready to start as soon as she is."

"Why, what do you mean?" bellowed the lawyer. "This is an outrage! What the devil do you mean?"

"I mean that Mrs. Collins is under arrest," explained the detective.