"How do you do, Mr. Montague?" said the clerk, when he went to the
desk. "Mr. Harvey left a note for you."
Montague opened the envelope, and read a hurried scrawl to the
effect that Harvey had just got word that a bank of which he was a
director was in trouble, and that he would have to attend a meeting
that evening. He had telephoned both to Montague's office and to his
hotel, without being able to find him.
Montague turned away. He had no place to go, for his own family was
out of town; consequently he strolled into the dining-room and ate
by himself. Afterwards he came out into the lobby, and bought
several evening papers, and stood glancing over the head-lines.
Suddenly a man strode in at the door, and he looked up. It was
Winton Duval, the banker; Montague had never seen him since the time
when they had parted in Mrs. Winnie's drawing-room. He did not see
Montague, but strode past, his brows knit in thought, and entered
one of the elevators.
A moment later Montague heard a voice at his side. "How do you do,
Mr. Montague?"
He turned.
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