Raffles Haw, with a great black
carpet-bag in his hand, found means to draw the cashier of the local
branch of the Bank of England from his breakfast, and to persuade him to
open his doors at unofficial hours. By half-past nine the crowd had
already begun to collect around Garraweg's, when a stranger, pale and
thin, with a bloated carpet-bag, was shown at his own very pressing
request into the bank parlour.
"It is no use, sir," said the elder brother humbly, as they stood
together encouraging each other to turn a brave face to misfortune,
"we can do no more. We have little left, and it would be unfair to the
others to pay you now. We can but hope that when our assets are
realised no one will be the loser save ourselves."
"I did not come to draw out, but to put in," said Raffles Haw in his
demure apologetic fashion. "I have in my bag five thousand
hundred-pound Bank of England notes. If you will have the goodness to
place them to my credit account I should be extremely obliged."
"But, good heavens, sir!" stammered Rupert Garraweg, "have you not
heard? Have you not seen? We cannot allow you to do this thing
blindfold; can we Louis?"
"Most certainly not. We cannot recommend our bank, sir, at the present
moment, for there is a run upon us, and we do not know to what lengths
it may go.
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