Scattergood already had made up his mind that if Ovid had allowed any of the bank’s funds to cling to him when he went away the shortage would be discoverable in the cash reserve, undoubtedly in a lump sum, and not by an examination of the books.  It was his judgment that Ovid was not of a caliber to plan the looting of a bank and skillfully to hide his progress by a falsification of the books.  That required an imagination that Ovid lacked.  No, Scattergood said to himself, if Ovid had looted he had looted clumsily—­and on sudden provocation....  Therefore he chose the vault for his peculiar task.

It is a comparatively easy task to count the cash reserve in the vault of so small a bank.  Even a matter of thirty-odd thousand dollars can be checked by one man alone in half an hour, for the small silver is packed away in rolls, each roll containing a stated sum; the larger silver is bagged, each bag bearing a label stating the amount of its contents, and the currency is wrapped in packages containing even sums....  Scattergood went to work.  He went over the cash carefully, and totaled the sums he set down on a bit of paper....  He found the amount to be inadequate by exactly three thousand dollars.

“Huh!” said Scattergood to himself.  “Ovid hain’t no hawg.”

One might have thought the young man had dropped in Scattergood’s estimation.  It would have been as easy to make away with twenty thousand dollars as with three thousand, and the penalty would not have been greater.

“Kind of a childish sum,” said Scattergood to himself. “’Tain’t wuth bustin’ up a life over—­not three thousand....  Calc’late Ovid hain’t bad—­not at a figger of three thousand.  Jest a dum fool—­him and his tailor-made clothes....”

In the silence of the vault Scattergood removed his shoes and sat on a pile of bagged silver.  His pudgy toes worked busily while he reflected upon the sum of three thousand dollars and what the theft of that amount might indicate.  “Looked big to Ovid,” he said to himself.  Then, “Jest a dum young eediot....”

He replaced the cash and, carrying his shoes in his hand, left the vault and closed it behind him.  His four fellow committeemen were sweating over the books, but all looked up anxiously as Scattergood appeared.  He stood looking at them an instant, as if in doubt.

“What d’you find?” asked Atwell.

“She checks,” said Scattergood.

The four drew a breath of relief.  Scattergood wished that he might have joined them in the breath, but there was no relief for him.  He had joined his fortunes to those of Ovid Nixon—­and to those of Ovid’s mother; had become particeps criminis, and the requirements of the situation rested heavily upon him.

It was past midnight before the laborious four finished their review of the books and joined with Scattergood in giving Ovid a clean bill of health.

“Didn’t think Ovid had it in him to steal,” said Kettleman.