up with the station-master and he's putting the police on.
You'll likely be wanted, so I gave him your number. It's a fair
disgrace that there should be so many thieves about this station.
It's not the first time I've lost things. Drive me to West George
Street and look sharp." And he slammed the door with the violence
of an angry man.

But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled to himself.
"That was pretty neat. They'll take some time to get the kist open,
for I dropped the key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael.
That gives me a fair start. If I hadn't thought of that, they'd have
found some way to grip me and ripe me long before I got to the Bank."
He shuddered as he thought of the dangers he had escaped. "As it is,
they're off the track for half an hour at least, while they're
rummaging among Auntie Phemie's scones." At the thought he laughed
heartily, and when he brought the taxi-cab to a standstill by rapping
on the front window, he left it with a temper apparently restored.
Obviously he had no grudge against the driver, who to his immense
surprise was rewarded with ten shillings.

Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have been seen entering the
head office of the Strathclyde Bank and inquiring for the manager.
There was no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on his
native heath. The chief cashier received him with deference in
spite of his unorthodox garb, for he was not the least honoured of
the bank's customers. As it chanced he had been talking about him
that very morning to a gentleman from London. "The strength of this
city," he had said, tapping his eyeglasses on his knuckles, "does not
lie in its dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two homely folk
who make no parade of wealth. Men like Dickson McCunn, for example,