The Brand of Silence | Page 8

Prale said. "There is no hurry, of course. Probably you'll have something in a few weeks that will take care of at least a part of the money."
The banker cleared his throat again, and looked a trifle embarrassed as he spoke. "The fact of the matter is, Mr. Prale," he said, "that we do not care for the account."
"I beg your pardon!" Prale exclaimed. "You mean you don't want me to leave my money in your bank?"
"Just that, Mr. Prale."
"But in Heaven's name, why? I should think that any financial institution would be glad to get a new account of that size."
"I--er--I cannot go into details, sir," the banker said. "But I must tell you that we'd be glad if you'd make arrangements to move the deposit to some other bank."
"I suppose you don't like to be bothered with small accounts," said Prale, with the suspicion of a sneer in his voice. "Very well, sir! I'll see that the deposit is transferred before night. Perhaps I can find banks that will be glad to take the money and treat me with respect. And I shall remember this, sir!"
"I--er--have no choice in the matter," the banker said.
"Can't you explain what it means?"
"I have nothing to say--nothing at all to say," stammered the financier. "We took the money because of our Honduras correspondent, but we'll appreciate it very much if you do business with some other institution."
"You can bet I'll do that little thing!" Prale exclaimed.
He left the office angrily and stalked from the building. Were the big financiers of New York insane? A man with a million in cold cash has the right to expect that he will be treated decently in a bank. Prale walked down the street and grew angrier with every step he took.
Before going to Honduras he had worked for a firm of brokers. He hurried toward their office now. He would send in his card to his old employer, Griffin, he decided, and ask his advice about banking his funds, and incidentally whether the financier he had just left was an imbecile.
He found the Griffin concern in the same building, though the offices were twice as large now, and there were evidences of prosperity on every side.
"Got an appointment?" an office boy demanded.
"No, but I fancy that Mr. Griffin will see me," said Prale. "I used to work for him years ago."
Then he sat down to wait. Griffin would be glad to see him, he thought. Griffin was a man who always liked to see younger men get along. He would want to know how Sidney Prale got his million. He would want to take him to luncheon and exhibit him to his friends--tell how one of his young men had forged ahead in the world.
The boy came back with his card. "Mr. Griffin can't see you," he announced.
"Oh, he's busy, eh? Did he make an appointment?"
"No, he ain't busy," said the boy. "He's got his feet set up on the desk and he's readin' about yesterday's ball game. He said to say that he didn't have time to see you this mornin', and that he wouldn't ever have time to see you."
"Don't be discourteous, you young imp!" Prale said, his face flushing. "You're sure you handed Mr. Griffin my card?"
"Oh, I handed it to him--and don't you try to run any bluff on me!" the boy answered. "From the way the boss acted, I guess you don't stand very high with him!"
The boy went back to his chair, and Sidney Prale went from the office, a puzzled and angry man. There probably was some mistake, he told himself. He'd meet Griffin during the day and tell him about the adventure.
He was anxious to meet some of the men with whom he had worked ten years before, but he did not know where to find them. He'd have to wait and ask Griffin what had become of them. Then, too, he wanted to transfer his funds.
Prale got another taxicab and started making the rounds of the banks he knew to be solid institutions. Within a few hours he had made arrangements to transfer the account, using four financial institutions. He said nothing, except that the money had been transferred to the trust company from Honduras, because the company had a correspondent there.
His funds secure, Prale went back uptown and to the hotel. The clerk handed him a note with his key. Prale tore it open after he stepped into the elevator. This time it was a sheet of paper upon which a message had been typewritten.
"You can't dodge the law of compensation. For what you have done, you must pay."
Sidney Prale gasped when he read that message, and went back to the ground floor.
"Who left this note for me?" he demanded of the clerk.
"Messenger boy."
"You don't