,
with a dead man in the room, and all his work to do! Now, what was the
next step? To see the directors? There was Webb; would he be clever
enough for Webb? And yet, if Webb had not been able to detect the
frauds that juggled along under his nose, how should Webb be a match
for him, who had thus detected them? It would certainly be to Webb's
interest to keep this quiet till they could straighten it all out.
Then they could divide what the president would have got. And nobody
would be a penny the poorer. It was absurd to call it a crime--if the
event proved successful. And it would be more than absurd to refuse
him the reasonable amount he would ask for: their gain would far exceed
his, even if five of them should divide the whole.

Stop a moment! Suppose he could confront them with Deeping's own
memoranda? Suppose he should control the material the president must
have had ready, in case ... why, he must have an incredible sum by him,
all ready at a moment's notice, something he could convert in an hour
into cash, before he fled. He kept the revolver: he would have kept
this. He was ready for anything. His pockets...

Weldon pushed aside the coat flap, but his hands refused the further
motions. To go through another man's pockets! And yet Deeping had
done worse than this: what sums had he not twisted and turned, added
and subtracted, borrowed and replaced? But not an actual pocket. No,
no. He cursed himself for a weak fool, but the pockets he could not
touch. The spirit indeed was willing, but the flesh, tyrant after
years of honest, deep-indenting habit, travelled its accustomed grooves
and would none of such muscular innovations. Well, he must take his
chance with the Board. He flung open the door and seized a
brass-buttoned official of many years' inferior but faithful service.

"Run," he muttered, "run, Henry, for Mr. Dupont! Mr. Deeping has had
some sort of stroke. Get him and call a doctor quickly--don't make any
row now about it, you understand. I'll stay here."

The man touched his cap and hurried off and Weldon stood nervously by
the door. A minute passed, two minutes. Suddenly he turned, slipped
the ornate brass bolt above the Yale lock, stepped quickly to the dead
man's side, and went with rapid, tactful fingers from one pocket to
another. The clock ticked leisurely, and unconsciously he muttered,
counting the strokes,

"Seven, eight, nine ... he must have them here...."

A l