"Who is it?" Saunders asked, being unable to recognize the speaker
from his position.

Wright turned to him. "It's old Jeff Henderson," he said, "still
harping on the same old string. He's blocking up the window. A thing
like that ought not to be allowed. If I was the president of this
bank, and a man like that dared to--"

"Let him in at the side door, and send him to me," Saunders ordered,
in a gentle tone. "I'll see him."

A moment later the man entered, and shuffled in a slipshod way up to
Saunders's desk. He was about seventy years of age, wore a threadbare
frock coat, baggy trousers, disreputable shoes, and a battered silk
hat of ancient, bell-shaped pattern. He was smooth-shaven, quite pale,
and had scant gray hair which in greasy, rope-like strands touched his
shoulders. He was nervously chewing a cheap, unlighted cigar, and
flakes of damp tobacco clung to his shirt-front.

"You were inquiring for Mostyn," Saunders said, quietly. "He is not at
work this morning, Mr. Henderson. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't know whether you can or not," the old man said, as he sank
into a chair and leaned forward on his walking-cane. "I don't know
whether _anybody_ can or not. I don't believe there is any law or
justice anywhere. You and him are partners, but I don't believe you
know him clean to the bottom as well as I do. You wouldn't be in
business with him if you did, for you are a straight man--a body can
tell that by your eye and voice--and I've never heard of any shady,
wildcat scheme that you ever dabbled in."