For three hours Richard Westwood had been subjected to a severer strain than most men have to submit to in the course of their lives. He was, as has already been stated, the senior partner in the chief banking house of Brackenshire—an old and highly-respected establishment. In fact, there was a time when the stability of the house of Westwood, Westwood, Barwell, & Westwood was regarded as at least equal to that of the county itself. Only an earthquake could, it was thought, produce any impression upon an English wheat-growing county, and a cataclysm of corresponding violence in the financial world would be required to shake the stability of Westwoods' Bank.

But in the course of time the importation of wheat in thousands of tons from America and elsewhere caused the most earnest believers in the stability of an English agricultural county to stand aghast; and then a day came when a bank or two of quite as great respectability as Westwoods' closed their doors and stopped payment all inside a single week. In a country where people talk about things being “as safe as the bank” such an occurrence produces an impression similar to that of a thunderstorm in December or a frozen lake in June: people begin to question the accuracy of their senses. If the bank where they and their fathers and grandfathers have deposited their money for years back beyond any remembrance, closes its doors, what is there on earth that can be trusted?

It was toward the close of this phenomenal week that the rumour arose in brackenhurst that Westwoods' Bank would be the next to fall. No one knew where the rumour originated—no one knew what foundation there was for such a rumour—no one who had money lodged in the bank seemed to inquire.

Even up to noon on the day when the run upon the Brackenhurst offices took place, nothing occurred to suggest that a panic was imminent among the customers of the bank. For two hours the business of the establishment was normal; Mr. Westwood was in his own room, discussing with his solicitor the validity of some documents offered as security for an overdraft by a local firm; the cashier, having received a few small lodgments, was writing a letter to the Secretary of the Styrton Cricket Club regarding the visit of the Brackenhurst Eleven on the Saturday; two of the other members of the staff were considering the very important question as to whether they should have their cups of coffee at once or wait for another halfhour, when, with the suddenness of a quick change of scenery at a well-managed theatre, the swingdoors were flung open and the bank was filled to overflowing with an eager crowd, crushing one another against the mahogany counters in their endeavours to reach the stand of the cashier.

Panic-stricken were the faces at which the cashier looked up from his half-finished letter—faces that communicated their panic to all who saw them. The cashier caught it in a moment: he glanced hastily round as if seeking for a way of escape.

The men and women, perceiving that he had lost his head, became wilder in their attempts to get opposite his desk. Outside, the crowd, striving to reach the doors of the bank, had become clamorous. The High Street of Brackenhurst was in an uproar. The two clerks had ceased to discuss the great coffee question. They were thinking of their revolvers.

As the panic-stricken cashier stood looking vacantly into the pale faces before him, but making no effort to attend to the three men who waved their cheques across the counter, Mr. Westwood came out of his room by the side of his solicitor. He was smiling as he shook hands and said goodbye. There was an instantaneous silence in the place.

“We shall see you at the cricket match on Saturday,” were the words that came through the silence from Mr. Westwood, as he shook hands with the other man. “If the weather continues like this it will be a batsman's day.”

He waved his hand as the solicitor went out into the crowd. The crowd that had been almost clamorous a minute before were now breathless with astonishment. They stared at the man who, when ruin was in the air, was talking of cricket. A batsman's day! A batsman's day! What did it mean? What manner of man was this who could talk quietly of a batsman's day when over his head the sword of Damocles was hanging?

The silence was unnatural; it became terrifying. Every one watched Mr. Westwood as he walked round to where the cashier was standing. He paid no attention to the clerk, but glancing across the counter, nodded pleasantly to one of the men who had been waving the cheques, like pink flags, in the direction of the desk.

“Good day, Mr. Simons,” said he. “What a dry spell we are having. They talk of the good old-fashioned summers—how is it you are not being attended to?” He turned to the cashier. “Come, Mr. Calmour, if you please; I fear I must ask you to stir yourself; it's likely to be a busy day. You want a cheque cashed, Mr. Simons? Certainly. You also have your cheque, Mr. Thorburn, and you, Mrs. Langley?”

“We want our money, sir,” said Mrs. Langley. She was a tall, bony lady, who had been the first to enter the bank. She was the principal of the Ladies' Collegiate School.

“So I understand, my dear lady,” said Mr. Westwood. “You shall have every penny of your money.”

From every part of the crowd hands were thrust, each waving a pink cheque. The people were no longer silent. One or two men of those nearest to Mr. W'estwood nodded to him. One made a sort of apology for asking for his balance at once—a sudden demand from a creditor compelled him to do so, he said, with a very weak smile. Another hoped Mr. Westwood's pheasants promised well. But beyond these actors were men with staring eyes, women with white faces become haggard within a few minutes, small tradesmen bareheaded and still wearing their aprons, artisans who had saved a few pounds and had placed all in the keeping of the bank, clergymen as anxious to draw their balance as their churchwardens, and painfully surprised that their parishioners should decline to give away to them in the common struggle to reach the counters.

The banker ceased to smile as he glanced across the crowd. He turned to the cashier, who had already got into action, so to speak, and was noting cheques preparatory to paying them.

“We shall have a busy hour or two, Mr. Calmour,” the head of the firm was heard to say. “Pay away all your gold without the delay of a moment. I shall bring you another ten thousand from the strong room.”

One could almost hear the sigh of relief that passed round the crowd as Mr. Westwood hurried into his own room. Two clerks had come to the cashier's desk bringing their books with them, and now the three members of the staff were hard at work, paying away gold in exchange for cheques. Within the space of a few minutes the bank porter, followed by Mr. Westwood, entered the cashier's cubicle staggering beneath the weight of turn large leathern bags, strapped and sealed. He threw them on the counter with a dull crash—the sweetest music known to the sons of men—and to the daughters of men as well—the crash of minted gold.

Mr. Westwood broke the seals of one, and in view of every one who had managed to crush near enough to see, sent a glittering stream of yellow gold flowing from the mouth of the bag into the cashier's till. He pressed the sovereigns and halfsovereigns flat with his hand and continued pouring until the receptacle could hold no more. Then he laid the bag, still half-full, in a deep drawer, and by its side he placed the second bag with the seal still unbroken.

This second bag was apparently even heavier than the first, for Mr. Westwood had to put forth all his strength to lift it from the counter to the drawer. An hour afterwards one of the clerks was able to lift it between his finger and thumb, and was astonished beyond measure at Mr. Westwood's cleverness in suggesting to the clamorous crowd that the second bag was like the first, full of gold, when it was quite empty.

But when the business of replenishing the cashier's till had been gone through, Mr. Westwood retired to watch the operations incidental to the cashing of the cheques. The technique of the transaction was much more tedious than it usually was; for as every cheque presented was drawn for the balance of an account, the cashier had to verify the figures, which involved the working out of two sums in compound addition, whereas the normal work of cashing a cheque required only a glance at the figures. Rapidly though the cashier now made his calculations, several minutes were still occupied in comparing the figures, and in more than one instance it was found that the drawer of the cheque had made a mistake in his addition through his haste in writing up his pass-book. It became perfectly plain to every one, especially those applicants who were still very far in the background, that only a small proportion of the cheques could be paid up to the time of the bank closing its doors.

Dissatisfied murmurs filled the office; outside there was a clamour of many voices.

At this point Mr. Westwood came forward.

“It is quite plain, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, addressing the crowd, “that at the present rate of cashing your cheques, not a tenth of you can be satisfied to-day. I will therefore instruct my cashier to give you gold for your cheques without going too closely into the exact balance. I will trust to the honour of the customers of the bank to make good to-morrow any error they have made in their figures, and I have also given instructions for the doors of the bank to remain open an hour longer than usual.”

There was a distinct brightening of faces in the neighbourhood of the cashier's desk, and a cheer came from the people beyond. It was plain that the production of the bag of gold and the dummy bag had done much to allay the panic, but it was also plain that the confidence shown by Mr. Westwood in the resources of the bank to meet the severest strain, had done much more than his adroit handling of the gold to restore the shaken trust of his customers. Fully a dozen men pushed their cheques into their pockets and left the bank.

Their departure, however, only served to make room for the entrance of an equal number of the crowd who had not been able to crush their way into the bank previously.

Mr. Westwood leant across the counter and chatted with one of the tradesmen who had been in the front rank of those who wished to draw out their balance. He now said to the banker that he had come to make an inquiry about a bill of his drawn upon a trader in a neighbouring town; he was anxious to know if it had been honoured. The bill clerk had given him the information, and now he was doing his best to respond to the friendly chat of Mr. Westwood.

Some clever people who watched these intervals of comedy in the course of the tragedy which they believed was being enacted, said that Mr. Westwood had nerves of steel. Others of the visitors to the bank, not being clever enough to perceive that Mr. Westwood was acting a part with great ability, felt that they were fools in doubting the solvency of a concern the head of which could treat such an incident as a run on his bank as an everyday matter. They did not press forward with their cheques. They pocketed their cheques and looked ashamed.

Mr. Westwood would have been greatly disappointed if they had continued to press forward. He had been a good friend to many of them. He knew that they would not have the courage to draw their balances under his very eyes, as if they believed him to be a rogue.

And then his personal attendant came to tell him that his midday cup of coffee awaited him, and he said a word about Saturday's cricket match to the tradesmen before nodding good-bye. Before returning to his private room, however, he stood beside the cashier for a moment, and his smile changed to a slight frown.

“Oh, Mr. Calmour, can you not contrive to be a little more expeditious?” he said. “We shall never get through all the business in the time if you are not a trifle quicker. Could not Mr. Combes make up rouleaux of ten and twenty sovereigns so as to have them ready for you to distribute? Come, Mr. Combes, stir yourself. Every cheque must be paid within the next hour.”

Mr. Combes stirred himself—so did Mr. Calmour—yes, for a short time; then it seemed that he shovelled out the sovereigns with more deliberation than ever; for he had felt Mr. Westwood's toe pressing upon one of his own as he had given him that admonition to be more expeditious. The cashier had long ago recovered his wits. He was well aware of the fact that, although Mr. Westwood's style was calculated to allay distrust, yet every minute's delay might mean hundreds of pounds saved to the bank. He understood his business, and that was why he thought it prudent to count one of the piles of sovereigns passed to him by his assistant, young Mr. Combes, and to declare with some heat that it was a sovereign short, a proceeding that necessitated a second count, and the passing of the rouleaux back to the clerk.

And this waste of time—this precious waste of time that went to save an old-established house from ruin—was watched by Richard Westwood from a clear corner half an inch in diameter in the stainedglass window of his private room door. He was not drinking his coffee. The cup, with a liqueur of cognac, stood on his desk untouched. He had fallen on his knees below the glass of his door, not to pray—though a prayer was in his heart—but in order to get his eye opposite that little clear space, which enabled him to observe, without being observed, all that went on outside.

He made up his mind that if his cashier only wasted enough time to save the bank he would give him an increase in salary from that very day.

He returned to the public office munching a biscuit, in less than half an hour; and he saw that once more his affectation of unconcern was producing a good impression. While he was absent there had been a good deal of noise in the public office. Men who had just entered were shouldering women aside in their anxiety to reach the cashier, and the women—some of them ladies—had not hesitated to call them blackguards and rowdies—so shockingly demoralised had they become in the race for their gold. Half a dozen police constables entered the public office, but not in time to prevent a serious altercation.

The nonchalance of Richard Westwood when he once more appeared caused the newcomers to stare. How could he continue munching a biscuit if his business was at the point of falling to pieces? “Men do not munch biscuits when they know themselves to be on the brink of a precipice,” the people were saying.

And then there came a sadden shriek from a lady who was fainting; and when she was carried out, there came a shrill cry from another who, with a wild face and staring eyes, declared that her pocket had been picked. She stood shrieking as if she had lost her reason with her purse, and then she clutched the man nearest to her by his collar, accusing him of having robbed her. A couple of constables struggled through the crowd until they got beside her, and Mr. Westwood leaped over the counter and pushed his way toward her.

He hoped that a few more exciting incidents would occur within the hour; every incident meant a certain amount of confusion and, consequently, delay in the cashing of cheques. Delay meant the saving of the bank from utter ruin.

He was disappointed in this one promising case: before he had reached the woman a constable had found in her own hand the money which she accused the man of stealing. She had never loosed her hold upon it, though with the other hand she still clutched the unfortunate man's collar, and could with difficulty be persuaded to relax her grasp, protesting that the constables were in a conspiracy to rob her. She was forced into the street in a condition bordering upon insanity.

The atmosphere had become charged with excitement as a cloud becomes charged with electricity, and in a few minutes some other women were crying out that they had been robbed. Richard Westwood was becoming more hopeful, though he saw with regret that, in front of the cashier, there were a dozen stolid tradesmen, every one of whom had a balance of at least a thousand pounds. They were waiting their turn at the desk with complete indifference to the scenes that were being enacted behind them. Within half an hour twelve thousand pounds would be paid away, Richard Westwood perceived. His only hope was that the panic would be diverted into another channel—that the fools who had lost their heads over their money might go on accusing one another—accusing the constables—accusing any one. In such circumstances the police might insist on the doors of the bank being closed at the usual hour—nay, even before the usual hour.

But while he was pretending to be exerting himself with a view to reassure a frantic lady, who declared that she had been robbed of a hundred pounds, though she had never been half-a-dozen yards from the entrance, and had consequently not received a penny from the cashier, the swing doors were flung wide, and a lady with a young man by her side stepped out of the porch and looked about her. Richard Westwood saw her, and his face, for the first time, became grave.

Then the lady—she was a handsome woman, tall and dignified—gave a laugh, and in a moment there was silence in the place where all had been noise and confusion. All eyes were turned toward the newcomers.

“Great Scott!” cried the young man—he was perhaps a few years over twenty, and he bore a strong likeness to the lady, who was certainly several years older. “Great Scott! Whats the matter here? Hallo, Westwood, I hope we don't intrude upon a Court of Sessions. My sister has come on business, but if you've let the bank”—

“If you have a cheque to be cashed,” began Mr. Westwood gravely, “I shall do my best to”—

“But I haven't a cheque to be cashed,” said the lady. “On the contrary, I have some money to lodge with you; fifteen thousand pounds—it's too much to have at home; it wouldn't be safe there, but I know it's perfectly safe here.”