"I beg your pardon, Mr. Bingle," interrupted Mr. Force, with a
somewhat sweeping wave of the hand that took in practically all of the
office and yet no spot in particular; "this is Mr. Sigsbee." He then
stood aside and permitted Mr. Bingle to discover Mr. Sigsbee, who came
hastily out of the whirling background.

"Glad to meet you, sir," said Mr. Sigsbee, giving Mr. Bingle's hand a
tremendous squeeze. "I should have known you, Mr. Bingle, anywhere on
earth from the description given to me."

Description! Poor Bingle's blood congealed. Description? That dreadful
word could have but one application. It was never used except in
connection with people who were wanted for crime. The man was a
detective!

"Sit down, Mr. Bingle," said Force, with shocking amiability. "Will
you smoke?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Bingle, doing his best to pull himself
together and failing completely. "As I was saying, Mr. Force, my wife--"

At this juncture, the door to an adjoining room was thrown open and
the bank's president stood revealed. At his back was the chairman of
the board and also the cashier, while somewhat indistinctly associated
with the sombre elegance of the room beyond were the figures of a
peeping stenographer and an open-mouthed secretary whose neck was
gallantly stretched almost to the point of dislocation because he was
too much of a gentleman to push the little stenographer out of his
line of vision.