Reggie lit a cheroot, and, before he had finished smoking, he had sketched the
outline of a fraud. He put away--"burked"--the Directors letter, and went in
to talk to Riley, who was as ungracious as usual, and fretting himself over
the way the bank would run during his illness. He never thought of the extra
work on Reggie's shoulders, but solely of the damage to his own prospects of
advancement. Then Reggie assured him that everything would be well, and that
he, Reggie, would confer with Riley daily on the management of the Bank. Riley
was a little soothed, but he hinted in as many words that he did not think
much of Reggie's business capacity.
Reggie was humble. And he had letters in his desk from the Directors that a
Gilbarte or a Hardie might have been proud of!
The days passed in the big darkened house, and the Directors' letter of
dismissal to Riley came and was put away by Reggie, who, every evening,
brought the books to Riley's room, and showed him what had been going forward,
while Riley snarled. Reggie did his best to make statements pleasing to Riley,
but the Accountant was sure that the Bank was going to rack and ruin without
him. In June, as the lying in bed told on his spirit, he asked whether his
absence had been noted by the Directors, and Reggie said that they had written
most sympathetic letters, hoping that he would be able to resume his valuable
services before long.
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