“I ought to have been through with this small bank and away by night,” grumbled the examiner. “But I'm going to give you a fair show, Vaniman, by waiting over. You've got this evening--and to-morrow is a holiday, and you can take that day, if you need it, to get this tangle straightened out. I'm stopping my work right here.” He slammed the ledger shut and tossed it on the girl's desk. “There's no sense in going through your cash in the vault till I can check by the book accounts. But, bless my soul! I can't understand by what rhyme or reason those figures have been put into the muddle they're in. It's coarse work. I'll be frank and say that it doesn't look like a sane man's attempt to put something over. That's why I'm lenient with you and am not sticking one of my closure notices on to your front door. Now get busy, so that you can be sure it won't go up on the door day after to-morrow.” He took down his coat and hat and when he left the room they heard him go into Tasper Britt's office across the corridor. The stricken lovers faced each other, appalled, mystified, questioning with the looks they exchanged. “Frank,” the girl wailed, “you know I haven't--” “I know you have been faithful and careful, in every stroke of your pen, dear. Whatever it is, it's not your fault.” “But what has happened to the books?” she queried, winking back her tears, trying hard to meet him on the plane of his calmness; he was getting his feelings in hand. “I propose to find out before I close my eyes this night,” he told her, gravely. CHAPTER XIII MISFORTUNE MEDDLES Shortly before the supper hour, Britt and Starr came into the bank; they wore their overcoats and hats, and were on their way to the tavern, evidently. “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.”