So, Uncle Bushrod put on his old brown suit, got his thick hickory stick, and meandered through the almost deserted streets of Weymouthville.  He entered the bank, unlocking the side door, and found the pass-book where he had left it, in the little back room used for consultations, where he always hung his coat.  Looking about casually, he saw that everything was as he had left it, and was about to start for home when he was brought to a standstill by the sudden rattle of a key in the front door.  Some one came quickly in, closed the door softly, and entered the counting-room through the door in the iron railing.

That division of the bank’s space was connected with the back room by a narrow passageway, now in deep darkness.

Uncle Bushrod, firmly gripping his hickory stick, tiptoed gently up this passage until he could see the midnight intruder into the sacred precincts of the Weymouth Bank.  One dim gas-jet burned there, but even in its nebulous light he perceived at once that the prowler was the bank’s president.

Wondering, fearful, undecided what to do, the old coloured man stood motionless in the gloomy strip of hallway, and waited developments.

The vault, with its big iron door, was opposite him.  Inside that was the safe, holding the papers of value, the gold and currency of the bank.  On the floor of the vault was, perhaps, eighteen thousand dollars in silver.

The president took his key from his pocket, opened the vault and went inside, nearly closing the door behind him.  Uncle Bushrod saw, through the narrow aperture, the flicker of a candle.  In a minute or two—­it seemed an hour to the watcher—­Mr. Robert came out, bringing with him a large hand-satchel, handling it in a careful but hurried manner, as if fearful that he might be observed.  With one hand he closed and locked the vault door.

With a reluctant theory forming itself beneath his wool, Uncle Bushrod waited and watched, shaking in his concealing shadow.

Mr. Robert set the satchel softly upon a desk, and turned his coat collar up about his neck and ears.  He was dressed in a rough suit of gray, as if for travelling.  He glanced with frowning intentness at the big office clock above the burning gas-jet, and then looked lingeringly about the bank—­lingeringly and fondly, Uncle Bushrod thought, as one who bids farewell to dear and familiar scenes.

Now he caught up his burden again and moved promptly and softly out of the bank by the way he had come locking the front door behind him.

For a minute or longer Uncle Bushrod was as stone in his tracks.  Had that midnight rifler of safes and vaults been any other on earth than the man he was, the old retainer would have rushed upon him and struck to save the Weymouth property.  But now the watcher’s soul was tortured by the poignant dread of something worse than mere robbery.  He was seized by an accusing terror that said the Weymouth name and the Weymouth honour were about to be lost.  Marse Robert robbing the bank!  What else could it mean?  The hour of the night, the stealthy visit to the vault, the satchel brought forth full and with expedition and silence, the prowler’s rough dress, his solicitous reading of the clock, and noiseless departure—­what else could it mean?