"Well, Michael—well?"
"Not a deposit this morning. Draughts come in like wild-fire," said the old cashier. "There is but a hundred pounds left in the safe!"
"A hundred pounds!" ejaculated the banker, clasping his hands together: "and is it come to this at length, Michael?"
"Yes," said the cashier, gruffly.
"Then let us post a notice at once," cried Tomlinson: "the establishment must be closed without another moment's delay."
"Will you write out the notice of stoppage of payment, or shall I?" inquired Michael.
"Do it yourself, my good old friend—do it for me!" said the banker, whose countenance was ashy pale, and whose limbs trembled under him, as if he expected the officers of justice to drag him to a place of execution.
The old cashier seated himself at the table, and wrote out the announcement that the bank was unfortunately compelled to suspend its payments. He then read it to the ruined man who was now pacing the apartment with agitated steps.
"Will that do?"
"Yes," answered the banker; "but, in mercy, let me leave the house ere that notice be made public."