"Knapp's right enough," Whipple said with dignity. "The man's hair is a medium brown--indeterminate brown." He glanced around the table at the heads of hair under the electric lights. "Something the color of Merrill's," and a director began stroking his hair nervously. "No, no; darker than Merrill's," broke in Kirkpatrick. "Isn't it, Knapp?" "Why, I was going to say lighter," admitted the cashier, discouragedly. "Never mind," I sighed. "Forget the hair. Come on--what color are his eyes?" "Blue," said Whipple. "Gray," said Knapp. "Brown," said Kirkpatrick. They all spoke in one breath. And as I despairingly laid down my pencil, the last man repeated firmly, "Brown. But--they might be light brown--or hazel, y'know." "But, after all, Boyne," Whipple appealed to me, "you've got a fairly accurate description of the man, one that fits him all right." "Does it? Then he's description proof. No moles, scars or visible marks?" I suggested desperately. "None." There was a negative shaking of heads. "No mannerisms? No little tricks, such as a twist of the mouth, a mincing step, or a head carried on one side?" More shakes of negation from the men who knew Clayte. "Well, at least you can tell me who are his friends--his intimates?" Nobody answered. "He must have friends?" I urged. "He hasn't," maintained Whipple. "Knapp is as close to him as any man in San Francisco." The cashier squirmed, but said nothing. "But outside the bank. Who were his associates?" "Don't think he had any," from Knapp. "Relatives?" "None--I know he hadn't." "Girls? Lord! Didn't he have a girl?" "Not a girl." "No associates--no girl? For the love of Mike, what could such a man intend to do with all that money?" I gasped. "Where did he spend his time when he wasn't in the bank?" Whipple looked at his cashier for an answer. But Knapp was sitting, head down, in a painful brown study, and the president himself began haltingly. "Why, he was perhaps the one man in the bank that I knew least about. The truth is he was so unobjectionable in every way, personally unobtrusive, quite unimportant and uninteresting; really--er-- un-everything, such a--a--" "Shadow," Cummings suggested. "That's the word--shadow--I never thought to inquire where he went till he walked out of here this noon with the bank's money crammed in that suitcase." "Was the Saturday suitcase a regular thing?" I asked, and Whipple looked bewildered. But Knapp woke up with, "Oh, yes. For years. Studious fellow. Books to be exchanged at the public library, I think. No--" Knapp spoke heavily. "Come to think of it, guess that was special work. He told me once he was taking some sort of correspondence course." "Special work!" chuckled Worth Gilbert. "I'll tell the world!" "Oh, well, give me a description of the suitcase," I hurried. "Brown. Sole-leather. That's all I ever noticed," from Whipple, a bit stiffly. "Brass rings and lock, I suppose?"