If there was trouble, and the
obvious deduction indicated that there was, he, Jimmie Dale, had no
desire to figure in it in a public way. Again he nodded his head. Yes,
he quite had his bearings now. It was the usual main street of a small
town--fairly well lighted, stores and shops flanking the pavements on
either side, and of perhaps a distance equivalent to some seven or eight
city blocks in length. Two blocks further up, on the same side of the
street as that on which he was standing, was the bank--not a very
pretentious establishment, he remembered; its staff consisting of but
one or two apart from Forrester, as was not unusual with small local
banks, though this in no way indicated that the business done was not
profitable, or, comparatively, large. Jimmie Dale started forward along
the street. On the corner just ahead of him was a two-story building,
the second floor of which had been divided into rooms originally
designed to be used as offices, as, indeed, most of them were, but two
of these Forrester had fitted up as bachelor quarters.
Jimmie Dale turned the corner, walked down the side street to the
office entrance that led to the floor above, opened the door, and ran
lightly up the stairs.
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