not be the slightest use, Uncle, in reopening this question tomorrow. My mind, as I have said, is already made up—unalterably.” The last word was uttered with an emphasis that rang finality.
The banker flung down the poker, and rose to his feet. His look was equally determined, equally final, equally unalterable.
“All right,” he snapped. “Then we’ll get through the banking business now.”
He touched a push-button by the side of the mantel. During the brief interval before a clerk responded to the summons, not another word was spoken.
“Bring me the exact figure of Mr. Warfield’s credit balance,” he said to his subordinate, “and cash for the amount. He will sign a check to close the account.”
Five minutes later Roderick had the little wad of bills in his pocket, and was ready to depart Uncle and nephew were again alone.
“There is one other matter,” said the banker with cold formality. “There is a paper in my possession which was entrusted to my keeping by your father just before he died. I was to deliver it to you at my discretion after you had attained your majority, but in any case on your reaching the age of twenty-five. I will exercise my discretion, and hand over the paper to you now.”
He advanced to a safe that stood open at one side of the room, unlocked a little drawer, and returned to the fireplace with a long linen envelope in his hand. A big red splash of wax showed that it had been carefully sealed.
“This is yours,” said the banker shortly, handing it over to the young man.
The latter was greatly agitated. A message from his dead father! What could it mean? But he mastered his emotions and quietly bestowed the packet in his breast pocket—beside the papers connected with the mining deal.
“I’ll read this later,” he said. And then he extended his hand. There was yearning affection in his eyes, in the tremor of his voice: “Uncle, we surely will part as friends.”
“You can regain my friendship only by doing my will. I have nothing more to say.
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