There was no reply, but Rayburn heard the rustling of paper on the inside near the crack against which his ear was pressed, and then the edge of a sheet of writing-paper was slowly shoved through. Rayburn grasped it, lifting it above a dozen outstretched hands. “Hold on!” he cried, authoritatively. “Til read it.” The silence of the grave fell on the crowd as the young man began to read.
“Friends and citizens,” the note ran, “Winship has absconded with every dollar in the vaults, except about two hundred dollars in my small safe. He has been gone two days, I thought on a visit to his kinfolks. I have just discovered the loss. I'm completely ruined, and am now trying to make out a report of my condition. Have mercy on an old man.”
Rayburn's face was as white as that of a corpse. The paper dropped from his hand and he stepped down into the crowd. He was himself no loser, but the Bishops had lost their all. How could he break the news to them? Presently he began to hope faintly that old Bishop might, within the last week, have drawn out at least part of the money, but that hope was soon discarded, for he remembered that the old man was waiting to invest the greater part of the deposit in some Shoal Creek Cotton Mill stock which had been promised him in a few weeks. No, the hope was groundless. Alan, his father, Mrs. Bishop, and—Adele—Miller's heart sank down into the very ooze of despair. All that he had done for Adele's people, and which had roused her deepest, tenderest gratitude, was swept away. What would she think now?
His train of thought was rudely broken by an oath from Barnett, who, with the rage of a madman, suddenly threw his shoulder against the door. There was a crash, a groan of bursting timber and breaking bolts, and the door flew open. For one instant Miller saw the ghastly face and cowering form of the old banker behind the wire-grating, and then, with a scream of terror, Craig ran into a room in the rear, and thence made his escape at a door opening on the side street. The mob filled the bank, and did not discover Craig's escape for a minute; then, with a howl of rage, it surged back into the street. Craig was ahead of them, running towards the church, where prayer-meeting-was being held, the tails of his long frock-coat flying behind him, his worn silk hat in his convulsive grasp.
“Thar he goes!” yelled Barnett, and he led the mob after him, all running at the top of their speed without realizing why they were doing so. They gained on the fleeing banker, and Barnett could almost touch him when they reached the church. With a cry of fear, like that of a wild animal brought to bay, Craig sprang up the steps and ran into the church, crying and groaning for help.
A dozen men and women and children were kneeling at the altar to get the benefit of the prayers of the ministers and the congregation, but they stood up in alarm, some of them with wet faces.
The mob checked itself at the door, but the greater part of it crowded into the two aisles, a motley human mass, many of them without coats or hats. The travelling evangelist seemed shocked out of expression; but the pastor, Mr. Lapsley, who was an old Confederate soldier, and used to scenes of violence, stood calmly facing them.
“What's all this mean?” he asked.
“I came here for protection,” whined Craig, “to my own church and people. This mob wants to kill me—tear me limb from limb.”
“But what's wrong?” asked the preacher.