“You have taken it!” “You have taken it!” “You have taken it!”

The directors, overwhelmed and confounded, retreated from Fields as if they were in personal danger from him.

“In Heaven’s name, Fields!” exclaimed the president, “speak out!  Tell us!  What!—­where!—­the money!  Come, man!”

“You had better lock the door,” said the teller; “some one will be coming in.”

One of the most feeble and aged of the board turned around and hastened, as fast as his infirm limbs would permit him, and threw the bolt with feverish haste, and then ran back again to hear.

“Yes,” said Fields, with deliberation, “I have taken the money.  I have carried it away and hidden it where no one can lay hands upon it but myself.”

“Then—­then, sir, you have stolen it!”

Fields bowed.  “I have stolen it.”

“But you have ruined us!”

“Possibly.”

“And you have ruined yourself!”

“I am not so sure of that.”

“Stop this useless talk!” cried a gentleman, who had heretofore been silent.  He bent upon Fields a look of great dignity.  “Make it clear, sir, what you have done.”

“Certainly.  When I left the bank last night I put into my pockets one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in greenbacks of the one-thousand-dollar denomination, one hundred thousand dollars in national-currency notes of the one-hundred-dollar denomination, and one hundred thousand dollars in gold certificates.  I left to the credit of my account twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and sixty-two dollars and some odd cents.  Eight thousand of these have been already drawn this morning.  It is not unlikely that the whole of what is left may be drawn within the next five minutes, and the next draft upon you will find you insolvent.  If the balance is against you at the clearing-house, you will undoubtedly be obliged to stop payment before one o’clock.”

Fields’s interlocutor turned sharply around and sank into his seat.  At this three of the young members of the board—­Slavin, a wool-dealer, Debritt, a silk importer, and Saville, an insurance actuary—­made a violent onslaught upon the teller, but others interposed.

What was to be said?  What was to be done?  Somebody cried for a policeman, and would have thrown up a window and called into the street.  But the act was prevented.  It was denounced as childish.  After a moment, everybody but Fields had seated himself in his accustomed place, overcome with agitation.  Those who could see devoured the teller with their eyes.  Two others wept with puerile fear and anger.  They began to realize the plight they were in.  It began to dawn upon them that an immense disaster was hanging over their heads.  How were they to escape from it?  Which way were they to turn to find relief?  It was no time for brawling and denunciation; they were in the hands of an unscrupulous man, who, at this crucial moment, was as cool and implacable as an iceberg.  They watched him carelessly draw and redraw his handkerchief through his fingers; he was unmoved, and entirely at ease.