Evidently the major had concluded. And what he had said amounted to nothing.
“May I ask,” said the examiner, “if you have anything further to say that bears directly upon the question of those abstracted securities?”
“Abstracted securities, sir!” Major Tom turned suddenly in his chair, his blue eyes flashing upon the examiner. ‘‘What do you mean, sir?”
He drew from his coat pocket a batch of folded papers held together by a rubber band, tossed them into Nettlewick’s hands, and rose to his feet.
“You’ll find those securities there, sir, every stock, bond, and share of ’em. I took them from the notes while you were counting the cash. Examine and compare them for yourself.”
The major led the way back into the banking room. The examiner, astounded, perplexed, nettled, at sea, followed. He felt that he had been made the victim of something that was not exactly a hoax, but that left him in the shoes of one who had been played upon, used, and then discarded, without even an inkling of the game. Perhaps, also, his official position had been irreverently juggled with. But there was nothing he could take hold of. An official report of the matter would be an absurdity. And, somehow, he felt that he would never know anything more about the matter than he did then.
Frigidly, mechanically, Nettlewick examined the securities, found them to tally with the notes, gathered his black wallet, and rose to depart.
“I will say,” he protested, turning the indignant glare
