its cobblestones,
every shop window, every landmark in it, that queer old square always
fascinated him. It was a bit of old England. The ancient church and
equally ancient Moot Hall spread along one side of it; the other three
sides were filled with gabled and half-timbered houses; the Market-Cross
which stood in the middle of the open space had been erected there in
Henry the Seventh's time. Amidst all the change and development of the
nineteenth century, Scarnham had been left untouched: even the bank
itself was a time-worn building, and the manager's house which flanked
it was still older. Underneath all these ancient structures were queer
nooks and corners, secret passages and stairs, hiding-places, cellarings
going far beneath the gardens at the backs of the houses: Neale, as a
boy, had made many an exploration in them, especially beneath the
bank-house, which was a veritable treasury of concealed stairways and
cunningly contrived doors in the black oak of the panellings.

But on this occasion Neale did not stare admiringly at the old church,
nor at the pilastered Moot Hall, nor at the toppling gables: his eyes
were fixed on something else, something unusual. As soon as he walked
out of the door of the house in which he lodged he saw his two
fellow-clerks, Shirley and Patten, standing on the steps of the hall by
which entrance was joined to the bank and to the bank-house. They stood
there looking about them. Now they looked towards Finkleway--a narrow
street which led to the railway station at the far end of the town. Now
they looked towards Middlegate--a street which led into the open
country, in the direction of Ellersdeane, where Mr. Gabriel
Chestermarke, senior proprietor of the bank, resided. All that was
unusual. If Patten, a mere boy, had been lounging there, Neale would not
have noticed it. But it was Shirley's first duty, on arriving every
morning, to get the keys at the house door, and to let himself into the
bank by the adjoining private entrance. It was Patten's duty, on
arrival, to take the letter-bag to the post-office and bring the bank's
correspondence back in it. Never, in all his experience, had Neale seen
any of Chestermarke's clerks lounging on the steps at nine o'clock in
the morning, and he quickened his pace. Shirley, turning from a
prolonged stare towards Finkleway, caught sight of him.

"Can't get in," he observed laconically, in answer to Neale's inquiring
look. "Mr. Horbury isn't there,