account elsewhere—for example, you advanced him a very considerable sum of money; was your cheque cleared through the Swedland National Bank?"
"No, sir—through my own bank."
Beale fingered his chin.
"Money this morning and he took his loss in good part—that can only mean one thing." He nodded. "Mr. White, you have supplied me with valuable information."
"I trust I have said nothing which may—ah—incriminate one who has invariably treated me with the highest respect," Mr. White hastened to say.
"Not more than he is incriminated," smiled Stanford. "One more question. You know that van Heerden is engaged in some sort of business—the business in which you invested your money. Where are his factories?"
But here Mr. White protested he could offer no information. He recalled, not without a sinking of heart, a similar cross-examination on the previous day at the hands of McNorton. There were factories—van Heerden had hinted as much—but as to where they were located—well, confessed Mr. White, he hadn't the slightest idea.
"That's rubbish," said Beale roughly, "you know. Where did you communicate with van Heerden? He wasn't always at his flat and you only came there twice."
"I assure you" began Mr. White, alarmed by the other's vehemence.
"Assure nothing," thundered Beale, "your policies won't sell—where did you see him?"
"On my honour"
"Let's keep jokes outside of the argument," said Beale truculently, "where did you see him?"
"Believe me, I never saw him—if I had a message to send, my cashier—ah—Miss Glaum, an admirable young lady—carried it for me."
"Hilda Glaum!"
Beale struck his palm. Why had he not thought of Hilda Glaum before?
"That's about all I want to ask you, Mr. White," he said mildly; "you're a lucky man."
"Lucky, sir!" Mr. White recovered his hauteur as
