“Of how much has he robbed the Bank?” asked Stedland quickly.
“A hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” was the staggering reply, and Stedland jumped to his feet.
“A hundred and fifty thousand?” he said incredulously.
“Yes, sir. I was wondering whether you could speak for him; you are one of the most highly respected clients of the Bank!”
“Speak for him!” shouted Stedland, and then of a sudden he became cool. His quick brain went over the situation, reviewing every possibility. He looked up at the clock. It was a quarter to three.
“Does anybody in the Bank know?”
“Not yet, sir, but I feel it is my duty to the general manager to tell him the tragic story. After the Bank closes this afternoon I am asking him to see me privately and—”
“Are you going back to the Bank now?” asked Stedland.
“Yes, sir,” said the man in surprise.
“Listen to me, my friend.” Stedland’s grey face was set and tense. He took a case from his pocket, opened it and extracted two notes. “Here are two notes for fifty,” he said. “Take those and go home.”
“But I’ve got to go to the Bank, sir. They will wonder—”
“Never mind what they wonder,” said Stedland. “You’ll have a very good explanation when the truth comes out. Will you do this?”
The man took up the money reluctantly.
“I don’t quite know what you—”
“Never mind what I want to do,” snapped Stedland. “That is to keep your mouth shut and go home. Do you understand plain English?”
“Yes, sir,” said the shaking Curtis.
Five minutes later Mr. Stedland passed through the glass doors of Molbury’s Bank and walked straight to the counter. An air of calm pervaded the establishment and the cashier, who knew Stedland, came forward with a smile.
“Unconscious of their awful doom,
The little victims play.”
quoted Stedland to himself. It was a favourite quotation of his, and he had used it on many appropriate occasions.
He passed, a slip of paper across the counter, and the cashier looked at it and raised his eyebrows.
“Why, this is almost your balance, Mr. Stedland,” he said.
Stedland nodded.
“Yes, I am going abroad in a hurry,” he said. “I shall not be back for two years, but I am leaving just enough to keep the account running.”
It was a boast of Molbury’s that they never argued on such occasions as these.
“Then you will want your box?” said the cashier politely.
“If you please,” said Mr. Noah Stedland. If the Bank passed into the hands of the Receiver, he had no wish for prying strangers to be unlocking and examining the contents of the tin box he had deposited with the Bank, and to the contents of which he made additions from time to time.
Ten minutes later, with close on a hundred thousand pounds in his pockets, a tin box in one hand, the other resting on his hip pocket—for he took no chances—Mr. Stedland went out again on the street and into the waiting taxicab. The fog was cleared, and the sun was shining at Clapham when he arrived.
He went straight up to his study, fastened the door and unlocked the little safe. Into this he pushed the small box and two thick bundles of notes, locking the safe door behind him. Then he rang for the faithful Jope, unfastening the door to admit him.
“Have we another camp bed in the house?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Jope.
“Well, bring it up here. I am going to sleep in my study tonight.”
“Anything wrong, sir?”
“Don’t ask jackass questions. Do as you’re told!”
Tomorrow, he thought, he would seek out a safer repository for his treasures. He spent that evening in his study and lay down to rest, but not to sleep, with a revolver on a chair by the side of his camp bed. Mr. Stedland was a cautious man. Despite his intention to dispense with sleep for one night, he was dozing when a sound in the street outside roused him.
It was a familiar sound—the clang of fire bells—and apparently fire engines were in the street, for he heard the whine of motors and the sound of voices. He sniffed; there was a strong smell of burning, and looking up he saw a flicker of light reflected on the ceiling. He sprang out of bed to discover the cause. It was immediately discernible, for the fuse factory was burning merrily, and he caught a glimpse of firemen at work and a momentary vision of a hose in action. Mr. Stedland permitted himself to smile. That fire would be worth money to him, and there was no danger to himself.
And then he heard a sound in the hall below; a deep voice boomed an order, and he caught the chatter of Jope, and unlocked the door. The lights were burning in the hall and on the stairway. Looking over the banisters he saw the shivering Jope, with an overcoat over his pyjamas, expostulating with a helmeted fireman.
“I can’t help it,” the latter was saying, “I’ve got to get a hose through one of these houses, and it might as well be yours.”
Mr. Stedland had no desire to have a hose through his house, and thought he knew an argument which might pass the inconvenience on to his neighbour.
“Just come up here a moment,” he said. “I want to speak to one of those firemen.”
The fireman came clumping up the stairs in his heavy boots, a fine figure of a man in his glittering brass.
“Sorry,” he said, “but I must get the hose—”
“Wait a moment, my friend,” said Mr. Stedland with a smile. “I think you will understand me after a while. There are plenty of houses in this road, and a tenner goes a long way, eh? Come in.”
He walked back into his room and the fireman followed and stood watching as he unlocked the safe. Then:
“I didn’t think it would be so easy,” he said.
Stedland swung round.
“Put up your hands,”
