The Substitute Millionaire Page #3

								


Jack still suspected a hoax of some kind, though the expensive note paper and the scrawly, characteristic hand were impressive.  He examined the latter with fresh care.  It was surely real handwriting, not process work.

"Oh well, it's worth a nickel for a telephone call," he thought.  "I have nothing to lose."

He had nearly half an hour to kill before nine-thirty, and no twenty-five minutes ever passed more slowly.  He walked down to Wall street and had a look at the outside of the National New York Bank, an imposing colonnade a whole block long.  He circumnavigated it three times, and at nine thirty-one, precisely, went into a cigar store and called up the number that had been given him.

After a due interval he heard a voice at the other end of the wire that certainly sounded like that of a man of mark--crisp, serene, potent; humorous and kindly, too.

"Mr. Norman?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is Delamare.  You are prompt.  Can you come down to see me this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you come right away?  Later I shall be very busy."

"Yes, sir."

"Good!  Better taxi down.  And by the way, it would be better if you sent in an assumed name.  I will explain why when I see you.  Call yourself--let me see--call yourself Mr. Robinson."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well.  I shall be expecting you.  Good-by."

Jack issued from the telephone booth a little dazed.  A great captain of finance asking him, the humble bookkeeper, to call!  Putting Jack on an equal footing by referring to himself as "Delamare"!  A mystery suggested by the use of an assumed name!  What could it all mean!  On the one hand the skeptic in Jack whispered: "Some one is putting up a game on you!"  On the other hand the dear hidden ego in us all that only needs a little appreciation to show its head said: "Why shouldn't Walter Delamare have private business with you as well as anybody?"

Jack had only to walk across the street to the bank.  The argument within him showed itself in a kind of defiant sheepishness as he passed the great portal and found himself under the far-flung vaulted ceiling. It had been designed to impress, and impressive it was.  With its rare marbles and mural paintings it was more like a palace than a place of sober business.  It was not yet the opening hour, but many elegant clerks were already starting to work behind the brass grills.  Shabby Jack eyed their cravats and fine linen wistfully.

He asked one of the uniformed attendants the way to Mr. Delamare's office, half expecting a roar of laughter to go up.  But nothing of the sort occurred.  He next found himself opposed by a silvery-haired old gentleman whose exquisite courtesy was the same to all.

"Whom do you wish to see?"

"Mr. Delamare."

"Mr. Delamare can be seen only by appointment."

"I have an appointment."

The courteous old gentleman permitted himself a glance of surprise. "What name shall I say?"
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