th, position, prestige,
success. In this moment of yet unplumbed disaster, taken by surprise,
summoned from a night of crowded pleasure, he held his mastery, chose
his men and measures with unhesitant decision--planned, ordered, kept to
that blunt direct speech of his that wasted no word. A buzz went up from
the unadmitted as the door swung shut behind him.

Lake had chosen well. Arcadia in epitome was within those pillaged
walls. Thompson was president of the rival bank. Alec was division
superintendent. Turnbull was the mill-master. Clarke was editor of the
_Arcadian Day_. Clarke had been early to the storm-center; yet, of all
the investigators, Clarke alone was not more or less disheveled. He was
faultlessly appareled--even to the long Prince Albert and black string
tie--in which, indeed, report said, he slept.

So much for capital, industry and the fourth estate. The last of the
probers, whom Lake had drafted merely by the slighting personal pronoun
"you," was nevertheless identifiable in private life by the name of
Billy White--being, indeed, none other than our old friend the devil.
His indigenous mustache still retained a Mephistophelian twist; he was
becomingly arrayed in slippers, pajamas and a pink bathrobe, girdled at
the waist with a most unhermitlike cord, having gone early and surly to
bed. In this improvised committee he fitly represented Society: while
the sheriff represented society at large and, ex officio, that
incautious portion under duress. Yet one element was unrepresented; for
Lake made a mistake which other great men have made--of failing to
reckon with the masterless men, who dwell without the wall.

Lake led the way.

"Will the watchman die, Alec, d'you think?" whispered Billy, as they
filed through the grilled door to the counting room.

"Don't know. Hope not. Game old rooster. Good watchman, too," said
Turnbull, the mill-superintendent.

Lake turned on the lights. The wall-safe was blown open; fragments of
the door were scattered among the overturned chairs.

In an open recess in the vault there was a dull yellow mass; the
explosion had spilled the front rows of coin to a golden heap. Behind,
some golden rouleaus were intact: others tottered precariously, as you
have perhaps seen beautiful tall stacks of colored counters do. Gold
pieces were strewn along the floor.

"Thank God, they didn't get all the gold anyhow!" said Lake, with a sigh
of relief. "Then, of course, they didn't touc