So after some further thought, he went over to the telegraph office and wired:—
“Five hundred sovereigns unaccountably missing from bank safe. Locked safe yesterday afternoon before leaving. Found locked on opening bank this morning, but money gone. Chard says slept premises last night. Await instructions.”
The same afternoon came a reply wire bidding the manager place the matter in the hands of the police, and the Northern Inspector of the Bulk and Bullion received instructions to proceed to Wharfdale at once and make full inquiries into the alleged robbery.
George Chard thought of his years of service that day, and of his mother and the girls.
Before midday all Wharfdale knew that the bank had been robbed, and the news had travelled up and down the river before sunset.
Business in the little riverside town was practically adjourned for that day. The citizens gathered in groups or sat on their heels under the shade of a tree opposite the bank door, formulating theories and discussing them.
The religious crank took advantage of the opportunity to address the assemblage upon the state of its immortal soul. Despite the great earnestness of his prayerful speech, little attention was paid to him.
It was old Dugald M’Donald who first whispered the theory that perhaps the coves in the bank knew more about where the money had gone to than anybody else.
Dugald put out this view of the matter with a mysterious wink which would have convinced any twelve men in the place.
The audience agreed that, after all, Dugald had no doubt hit the mark, and, thus encouraged, the astute M’Donald with many a “Mind, I’m no’ for sayin’ that it is so,” put forward enough arguments to shake the reputation of an archangel.