Taking Gantry's arm, he led him out of the
club and around the block to the Sierra National Bank. It was after
banking hours, but the side door giving access to the safe-deposit
department was still open. With the traffic manager at his elbow, Blount
asked the custodian for his private box, got it, and led the way to one
of the cell-like retiring rooms. Gantry proved his capacity for
transacting business by turning on the lights, locking the door, and
squaring himself in a chair at one side of the tiny writing-table.
Blount opened the japanned safety box, took out a bulky envelope and
tossed it across to the traffic manager.
"You can see for yourself whether I've been bluffing or not," he said
quietly; and then he turned his back and interested himself in the
lithograph of the latest Atlantic liner framed and hanging upon the
mahogany end wall of the small room.
For a little time there was a dead silence, broken only by the faint
rustling of the papers as Gantry withdrew and unfolded them. When he had
glanced at the last folded letter sheet, he snapped the rubber band upon
the sheaf and sat back in his chair. Blount turned at the snap and found
the traffic manager smiling curiously up at him.
"Sit down, Evan," was the friendly invitation. And when Blount had
dropped into the opposite chair: "We used to be pretty good friends in
the old days, Ebee," Gantry went on, falling easily into the use of the
college nickname.
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