“Winship,” panted Craig, his white head hanging down as he stood touching the altar railing—“Win-ship's absconded with all the money in my vault. I'm ruined. These people want me to give up what I haven't got. Oh, God knows, I would refund every cent if I had it!”
“You shall have our protection,” said the minister, calmly. “They won't violate the sacredness of the house of God by raising a row. You are safe here, brother Craig. I'm sure all reasonable people will not blame you for the fault of another.”
“I believe he's got my money,” cried out Barnett, in a coarse, sullen voice, “and the money of some o' my women folks that's helpless, and he's got to turn it over. Oh, he's got money some'r's, I 'll bet on that!”
“The law is your only recourse, Mr. Barnett,” said the preacher, calmly. “Even now you are laying yourself liable to serious prosecution for threatening a man with bodily injury when you can't prove he's wilfully harmed you.”
The words told on the mob, many of them being only small depositors, and Barnett found himself without open support. He was silent. Rayburn Miller, who had come up behind the mob and was now in the church, went to Craig's side. Many thought he was proffering his legal services.
“One word, Mr. Craig,” he said, touching the quivering arm of the banker.
“Oh, you're no loser,” said Craig, turning on him. “There was nothing to your credit.”
“I know that,” whispered Miller, “but as attorney for the Bishops, I have a right to ask if their money is safe.” The eyes of the banker went to the ground.
“It's gone—every cent of it!” he said. “It was their money that tempted Winship. He'd never seen such a large pile at once.”
“You don't mean—” But Miller felt the utter futility of the question on his tongue and turned away. Outside he met Jeff Dukes, one of the town marshals, who had been running, and was very red in the face and out of breath.