The bank president was sensitive on one point; he never permitted
initials only to be used before his name. The messenger's
deferential knock was answered by a gruff command to enter. Clymer
welcomed Kent with an air of relief.

"You know Colonel McIntyre," he said by way of introduction, and
Kent became aware that the tall man lounging with his back to him
in one of the leather covered chairs was Barbara's father. Colonel
McIntyre returned Kent's bow with a curt nod, and then Clymer
pushed forward a chair.

"Sit down, Kent," he began. "You have already handled several
confidential affairs for the bank in a satisfactory manner, and
I have sent for you to-day to ask your aid in an urgent matter.
Before I go further I must ask you to treat what I am about to say
as strictly confidential."

"Certainly, Mr. Clymer."

"Good! Then draw up your chair." Clymer waited until Kent had
complied with his request. "You have heard of Jimmie Turnbull's
sudden and tragic death?"

"Yes."

"As you know, he was cashier of this bank." Clymer spoke with
deliberation. "Soon after word reached here of his death, the
vice-president and treasurer of the bank had a careful examination
made of his books and accounts." Clymer paused to clear his throat;
he was troubled with an irritating cough. "Turnbull's accounts