At which Demorest, walking slowly towards his
partners, opened the packet, and stood suddenly still. It contained the
dried and bloodless second finger of a human hand cut off at the first
joint!
For an instant he held it at arm's length, as if about to cast it away.
Then he grimly replaced it in the paper, put it carefully in his pocket,
and silently walked after his companions.
CHAPTER I
A strong southwester was beating against the windows and doors of
Stacy's Bank in San Francisco, and spreading a film of rain between the
regular splendors of its mahogany counters and sprucely dressed clerks
and the usual passing pedestrian. For Stacy's new banking-house had
long since received the epithet of "palatial" from an enthusiastic
local press fresh from the "opening" luncheon in its richly decorated
directors' rooms, and it was said that once a homely would-be depositor
from One Horse Gulch was so cowed by its magnificence that his heart
failed him at the last moment, and mumbling an apology to the elegant
receiving teller, fled with his greasy chamois pouch of gold-dust to
deposit his treasure in the dingy Mint around the corner. Perhaps there
was something of this feeling, mingled with a certain simple-minded
fascination, in the hesitation of a stranger of a higher class who
entered the bank that rainy morning and finally tendered his card to the
important negro messenger.
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