His son James was sitting in the chair, with the other directors around him, when old Mr. Bowdoin reached the bank. There was a silence when he entered, and a sense of past discussion in the air. James Bowdoin rose. "Keep the chair, James, keep the chair. I have a little business with the board." "They were discussing, sir," replied James, "No," said the father. "What is your objection to proceeding without him?" asked Mr. Pinckney rather shortly. "None whatever," coolly answered Mr. Bowdoin. "None whatever? Why, you said you would not proceed while Mr. McMurtagh was ill." "McMurtagh will never come back to the bank," said old Mr. Bowdoin gravely. "Dear me, I hope he is not dead?" "No, but he will retire; on a pension, of course. Then his granddaughter has quite a little fortune." "His granddaughter—a fortune?" "Certainly—Miss Sarah—McMurtagh," gasped Mr. Bowdoin. He could not say "St. Clair," and so her name was changed. "Something over twenty thousand dollars. I have come for it now." The other directors looked at old Mr. Bowdoin for visual evidence of a failing mind. "The amount must be specified somewhere." "The amount was duly entered on the books of James Bowdoin's Sons, Tom Pinckney; and their books are no business of yours, unless you doubt our credit. Would you like a written statement?" and Mr. Bowdoin puffed himself up and glared at his old friend. "Here is the chest, sir," said Mr. Stanchion suavely. "Have you the key?" "No, sir; Mr. McMurtagh has the key," and Mr. Bowdoin stalked from the office. |