THAT morning, about nine o'clock, old Simon Walton rode down to his bank in the one-horse buggy of antiquated type which had come into his possession years before in the foreclosure of a mortgage given by a poor farmer, and which, with its rusty springs and uncouth appearance, was quite in keeping with the character of its present owner.

The bookkeepers were busy at their special duties, and scarcely gave him a glance over their ponderous ledgers as he came in at the front and walked to his desk in the rear. Hanging up his old slouch hat, and seating himself in his big revolving chair, his eyes fell on a stack of letters addressed to him. Rapidly shifting them through his stiff fingers, his attention was drawn to the only one which bore no stamp or postmark. He recognized the writing, and as he held it frowningly before him, his confidential clerk, Toby Lassiter, a colorless and bald young man of medium height, sparse mutton-chop whiskers, and soft, shrinking gray eyes, entered with a slip of paper.

“The cotton quotations you wanted, Mr. Walton,” he said, in the discreet tone he used to the banker on all occasions, lest he might by accident expose to other ears matters his cautious master wished to be kept private.

“Oh yes.” Then, as Lassiter was softly slipping away: “But hold on, Toby! Have you seen Fred this morning?”

“No, sir, he hasn't been around yet. In fact, Mr. Walton, I wanted to ask you. Only three of us carry keys to the front door—you and me and Fred; and when I was opening up this morning I found that somebody had pushed one of them under the door.”

“Well, I've got mine,” old Simon said, with a slow, wondering stare. “Oh, wait! this note is from him; maybe he—” The banker, with fumbling fingers, tore open the envelope and began to read. The waiting clerk heard him utter a gasp. It was followed by a low, subdued groan, and looking like a corpse momentarily electrified into a semblance of life, the old man rose to his feet, the half-read confession clutched in his sinewy fingers.

“He's gone!” he gasped. “He's taken five thousand dollars of the bank's funds, and made off!”

“Oh, Mr. Walton, do, do be quiet!” Lassiter whispered, warningly, as he laid his hands on the arms of his employer, and gently urged him to sit down. The banker obeyed as an automaton might, his wrinkled face beneath his shaggy eyebrows wildly distorted, his lips parted, showing his yellow jagged teeth, his breath coming and going in spasmodic gasps. Every hair on his head seemed to stand dry and harsh by itself as he ran his prong-like fingers upward through the bushy mass.

“Five thousand—five thousand—five thousand!” he groaned; “the low, ungrateful thief; and at a time when he knew it would hamper us and maybe bring on a crash. Look y' here, Toby, and be quick about it! Run and get the sheriff—if you can't find him fetch the deputy! Then see if the telegraph office is open. I'll jail that scamp before night! I want my money! I want my money! He's no son of mine! I gave him fair warning, as you know, to let up in his damnable course, and he snapped his card-flipping fingers in my face. Hurry up! He can't be far off; we'll nab him before the day is over. Run!”

But the clerk lingered. “Mr. Walton,” he began, falteringly, “I never have refused to obey your orders, but Fred ain't quite as bad as—really, you oughtn't to handle the boy that way. He's been a good friend to me, and I'd hate to think I'd stand by and see you take a step like this, mad as you are, when if you'd only be calm a minute, surely you'd realize—”

“Am I the head of this bank or you?” old Walton broke in, as he rose and stood quivering and clinging with both hands to the back of his unsteady chair. “Go and do as I tell you, or, by the God over our heads, I'll send you about your business!”.

“All right, Mr. Walton,” the clerk yielded, “I'll do it!”

White as death could have made him, Lassiter passed out at a door on the side of the building and gained the street without being seen by the workers in the counting-room.

“Poor Fred!” he muttered. “He's too good at heart to be treated this way, and he's not a real thief, either. Folks have told him all his life that he had a right to more of the old man's money than he was getting, and he didn't think it was stealing.”

On a corner he saw Bill Johnston, the sheriff, a man about forty-five years of age, who wore great heavy top-boots, a broad-brimmed hat, and had sharp brown eyes and a waxed and twisted mustache. With considerable reluctance, Toby went up to him.

“Mr. Walton wants to see you, Bill,” he said. “He's in his office in the bank.”

“Well, I can't come for ten minutes yet, anyway,” the sheriff said, not removing his steady gaze from a group of men round a mountain wagon in a vacant lot across the street, where, on a high hoarding of planks, glaring new circus bills were posted. “The boys are about to smell out a keg of wild-cat whiskey in that gang of mossbacks. They may need me any minute. Tell the old man I'll be along as soon as I can.”

Lassiter went back to the bank and gained his employer's presence without attracting the attention of any of the clerks. He found the shaggy head prone on the desk, the long arms hanging down at either side. For a moment Toby thought the banker was a victim of heart-failure, and stood stricken with horror. But he was reassured by a low groan from the almost inert human mass.

“Good Lord,” he heard the banker praying, “scourge him! Don't heed his cries and promises! He has lied to me, he'll lie to you!” Therewith Simon raised his blearing eyes, now fixed and bloodshot in their sockets.

“Well?” he growled, impatiently.

“Johnston is coming right away,” Lassiter said, and he approached the old man and leaned over him. “Mr. Walton, once when you were very mad with the other bank, you remember, and was about to take action against them, I got your ear, and showed you that in a suit at court you'd have to make certain showings of a private nature that would injure our interests, and you admitted that I was right, and—and decided to let the matter blow over. You've said several times since then that I was right, and—”

“Well, what the devil has that got to do with this?” Walton thundered.

“I'll tell you, Mr. Walton—now wait one minute, just one minute,” Lassiter urged: “you know how excitable depositors are. Don't you see if the report goes out that you have actually turned Fred over to the law for a big defalcation that folks will get the impression that you are in a shaky condition? The other bank would make it appear ten times as bad as it is, and we might have a frightful run on us. We are all right, solid enough, the Lord knows, but money—ready money—is hard to get. There never has been a time when it would be as hard to stand under a run as right now. We are getting ahead of the other bank, and they are as mad as Tucker. They wouldn't want anything better than a chance like this to—”

“You mean?—great God, Toby, you are right! It would ruin us—absolutely wreck us! I see it—I see it as plain as day!”

There was a sound of heavy steps in the corridor outside.

“It is the sheriff,” Toby whispered, “but I didn't tell him what you wanted. Don't act now, Mr. Walton; for God's sake, don't!”

“Tell him to wait a minute,” the banker panted. But it was too late; the sheriff, with his usual lack of ceremony, was already pushing the door open.

“Hello, old man!” Johnston said, and he came in with a swinging stride. “I hope you are not scared about what I owe you; I'll get it up all right. Money is owing to me, and—”

“No, it wasn't that—it wasn't that.” Walton's rigid face was forced into a smile that fairly distorted it and set the observant officer wondering. “The truth is, Johnston, I thought I needed your services, but I find I'm mistaken. That's all, Johnston, I was mistaken. I've decided to let it pass—to let it pass, you know.”

“All right, old man,” the sheriff replied, as his puzzled glance swept the two disturbed faces before him. “I don't care just so you don't garnishee my salary for what I owe you.”

Outside, as he joined a group of idlers on the corner, he remarked, with a broad, knowing smile and a twinkle of the eye: “That old note-shaver in there thinks he can fool me. He sent Toby Lassiter out just now as white as a preacher's Sunday shirt to ask me to see him. I found him looking like a staring idiot, and was informed that it was a false alarm. False nothing! I'll give you boys a tip. I'll bet that gay and festive Fred is up to some fresh devilment. You watch out and you'll hear something drop, if I am any judge. I saw Fred last night headed for the railroad. He didn't see me. I was hiding behind a fence, watching him. I think he boarded a freight-train; I am not sure.”