"Ah! if that could be done," interrupted the banker, his countenance animated with hope, "I might yet be spared the execrations of the widow and the orphan!"
"Ever your widows and orphans, my dear fellow," said Greenwood: "you are really quite sickening."
"Well—well—the idea?"
"Nothing is more simple," continued Greenwood. "You leave the bank this afternoon at five, as usual: Michael sees all safe, and takes his departure also. You leave fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes in the strong box, together with securities of foreign houses at Leipzig, Vienna, Turin, New York, Rio Janeiro, Calcutta, Sydney——"
"Greenwood, have you come back to mock a miserable—ruined man?"
"Quite the contrary. Listen! You leave money and securities to the amount of ninety-two thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven pounds—or any odd sum, to look well—safe in the strong box, together with the cash-books. You and Michael come in the morning—or perhaps it would be better to allow one of the clerks to arrive first,—and, behold! the bank has been broken into during the night—the money, the securities, and the books are all gone—and the bank stops as a natural consequence!"
"Impossible—impossible!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "it could never be done! I could not proclaim such a fraud without a blush that would betray me. What say you, Michael?"
The old cashier answered only with a grunt, and took snuff as it were by handfuls.
"What say you, Michael?" repeated Tomlinson, impatiently.
"I say that it can be done—ought to be done—and must be done," replied the old man. "I would sooner die than see the honour of the house lost—and that will save it."