After walking a distance of three squares he came to the centre of the town’s business area.  Here another street of importance crossed the main one, forming the hub of San Rosario’s life and commerce.  Upon one corner stood the post-office.  Upon another Rubensky’s Clothing Emporium.  The other two diagonally opposing corners were occupied by the town’s two banks, the First National and the Stockmen’s National.  Into the First National Bank of San Rosario the newcomer walked, never slowing his brisk step until he stood at the cashier’s window.  The bank opened for business at nine, and the working force was already assembled, each member preparing his department for the day’s business.  The cashier was examining the mail when he noticed the stranger standing at his window.

“Bank doesn’t open ’til nine,” he remarked curtly, but without feeling.  He had had to make that statement so often to early birds since San Rosario adopted city banking hours.

“I am well aware of that,” said the other man, in cool, brittle tones.  “Will you kindly receive my card?”

The cashier drew the small, spotless parallelogram inside the bars of his wicket, and read: 

   J. F. C. Nettlewick
   National Bank Examiner

“Oh—­er—­will you walk around inside, Mr.—­er—­Nettlewick.  Your first visit—­didn’t know your business, of course.  Walk right around, please.”

The examiner was quickly inside the sacred precincts of the bank, where he was ponderously introduced to each employee in turn by Mr. Edlinger, the cashier—­a middle-aged gentleman of deliberation, discretion, and method.

“I was kind of expecting Sam Turner round again, pretty soon,” said Mr. Edlinger.  “Sam’s been examining us now, for about four years.  I guess you’ll find us all right, though, considering the tightness in business.  Not overly much money on hand, but able to stand the storms, sir, stand the storms.”

“Mr. Turner and I have been ordered by the Comptroller to exchange districts,” said the examiner, in his decisive, formal tones.  “He is covering my old territory in Southern Illinois and Indiana.  I will take the cash first, please.”

Perry Dorsey, the teller, was already arranging his cash on the counter for the examiner’s inspection.  He knew it was right to a cent, and he had nothing to fear, but he was nervous and flustered.  So was every man in the bank.  There was something so icy and swift, so impersonal and uncompromising about this man that his very presence seemed an accusation.  He looked to be a man who would never make nor overlook an error.