Ten minutes later--perhaps five, for Jack arrived on the run--Jack
bounded into Peter's bank, and slipping ahead of the line of
depositors, thrust his overheated face into the opening. There he
gasped out a bit of information that came near cracking the
ostrich egg in two, so wide was the smile that overspread Peter's
face.
"What--really! You don't say so! Telegraphed you? Who?"
"A Mr. Ballantree," panted Jack. "I have just left him at the
Astor House."
"I never heard of him. Look out, my boy--don't sign anything until
you--"
"Oh, he is only the general manager. It's a Mr. Guthrie--Robert A.
Guthrie--who wants it. He sent Mr. Ballantree."
"Robert Guthrie! The banker! That's our director; that's the man I
told you of. I gave him your address. Go and see him by all means
and tell him everything. Talk just as you would to me. One of the
best men in the Street. Not a crooked hair on his head, Jack.
Well--well--this does look like business."
"Pardon me, sir, one minute, if you please--" interpolated Peter
to an insistent depositor whom Jack in his impatience had crowded
out.
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