"Father is upstairs lying down," she explained, solicitously, as she showed Trant into the living room. "But I can call him," she offered, reluctantly, "if it is on business of the bank."
"It is on business of the bank," Trant replied. "But there is no need to disturb your father. It was your brother I came to see."
The girl's face went crimson. "My brother is no longer connected with the bank," she managed to answer, miserably. "I do not think he would be willing—I think I could not prevail upon him to talk to anyone sent by the bank."
"That is unfortunate," said Trant, frankly, "for in that case my journey out here goes half for nothing. I was very anxious to see him. By the way, Miss Gordon, what luck are you having with your typewriting?"
The girl drew back surprised.
"Mr. Howell told me about you," Trant explained, "when he mentioned that your father had taken his old typewriter home for you to practice upon."
"Oh, yes; dear father!" exclaimed the girl. "He brought it home with him one night this week. But it is quite out of date—quite useless. Besides, I had hired a modern one last week."
"Mr. Howell interested me in that old machine. You have no objection to my seeing it?"
"Of course not." The girl looked at the young psychologist with growing astonishment. "It is right here." She led the way through the hall, and opened the door to a rear room. Through the doorway Trant
