He took out the letter, made to tear it into fragments, and then remembered that inside was a blank check. He pulled out the sheet of notepaper and felt for the little pink slip that in his magnificence he had signed with a complacent flourish. It was not there! Gilder peered into the envelope with a frown. Gone! He searched the safe: it might have fallen out, though how, he could not imagine; but there was no sign of the check. He unlocked his drawer and took out his check-book. There was the counterfoil, and written across it, “For Leslie----.” He had intended to show her that counterfoil one of these days, when she felt more kindly toward him. With his head in his hands he tried to remember when he had last seen the check, and then he recalled that it was on the morning Arthur Gwyn had called to see him. At that thought he went white. Surely he had closed the safe? Again he struggled to remember, minute by minute, that fateful morning. He had been looking at the letter, he had put it away, he had closed the door, and then--the telephone bell had rung and he had forgotten to fasten the safe! He pulled the ’phone toward him now and called furiously for a number. It was twenty past nine; most of the staff of the bank would be there. When the call was answered: “I am Mr. Gilder,” he said quickly. “Is the manager there?… No? Then the sub-manager will do. It is very urgent.” He waited whilst the clerk went to investigate. Presently he heard the voice of a man he knew--the manager himself. “I just came in at this moment. Is anything wrong?” “Fletcher, do you remember my telling you that I should be sending down a check for fifty thousand pounds and asking you to honour it?” “Yes; I honoured it.” For a second Gilder was speechless. “You honoured it? Who presented the check?” “Arthur Gwyn--it was made out in his favour. I notified you last night; didn’t you get my letter?” “I haven’t opened all my post yet,” said Gilder steadily. “Thank you.” He hung up the receiver, breathing heavily. For now he remembered clearly every event of the morning: the coming of Arthur Gwyn, and his seemingly absurd proposal, that Gilder should write a note expressing his willingness to lend the money. That was the trick of it! Not only had Arthur got the fifty thousand, but with that letter he had a complete answer to any charge of fraud. He sat with clasped hands, every vein on his forehead swollen, and murder in his heart. Tricked! And she should know. She had been a party to the fraud--unwittingly, perhaps, but nevertheless a party. She must have told him of this money.… Whatever else he was, Fabrian Gilder had the gift of clear thinking. Five minutes’ riotous fury, and he was his cold self again. Of course she couldn’t have helped in the fraud. It was the accident of leaving the safe unlocked, and Arthur Gwyn’s known inquisitiveness--he could never resist reading even Gilder’s private letters; Arthur had no sense of other people’s privacy.