“You must do nothing about this matter, nor give it further publicity, until you hear from me again, or from Nick. I do not wish to question you further, but I will have a look at the vault.” Beckwith arose to conduct him to it. Chick made only a brief inspection of the vault, however, finding nothing further on which to base an opinion, and he then repeated his instructions to Beckwith and the other clerks and departed. He did not immediately leave the building. He went, instead, to verify Beckwith’s statements by having a brief interview with the one man said to have seen Gordon departing the previous afternoon. Chick found his office door a little farther down the corridor. It bore a neatly printed sign: “Edgar Hereford Dayton, Agent.” “Humph! That’s a good bit English, don’t you know,” he said to himself, while he scrutinized the name. “I guess ’e come from Staffordshire, all right. I’ll have a look at him.” Trying the door, Chick found that it yielded, and he stepped into the small but well-equipped office. There was a wardrobe closet, a roll-top desk, and on a table lay a pile of illustrated business catalogues. A man seated at the desk turned deliberately in his swivel chair and gazed at his visitor through a pair of gold-bowed glasses. He was a man of medium build, clad in a rather striking plaid suit. He appeared to be about forty years old, a man with brown hair and a carefully trimmed beard, eyebrows that curved upward at the outer ends, a quite florid complexion, and eyes that had a keen and searching expression. “Good morning,” said Chick, after closing the door. “You are Mr. Dayton?” “Yaas, surely,” was the reply, with a rather affected drawl. “What can I do for you?” “My name is Carter,” said Chick. “I have been talking with Mr. Beckwith, the cashier over in Gordon’s office. He----” “Oh, yaas!” Dayton cut in, with more manifest interest. “He was telling me about a bad mess over there, deucedly bad, I judge. I say, you’re not an inspector, are you?” Chick smiled and took the chair to which Dayton politely waved him. “That is what they call men of my vocation in England,” he replied. “Here, in America, we are detectives.” “Yaas, yaas, I see,” nodded Dayton, laughing and showing his teeth. “I don’t quite get away from the home lingo, you know.” “I inferred that you were English.” “Yaas, that’s right, Mr. Carter. I’ve been over ’ere only a few months. Don’t ’ang round New York but part of the time. Traveling ’ere and there most of it. But I ’ave to ’ave an office ’ere, you know. I say, what can I do for you?” Not for a moment had his keen, intent eyes left the face of the detective. “Well, Beckwith was telling me that you saw Gordon leaving his office yesterday afternoon,” said Chick, declining a cigarette the Englishman now tendered, while he lit one for himself. “Yaas, surely. I told Beckwith so.” “Can you tell me precisely what time it was when you saw Gordon?”