After breakfast quite a family party went downtown together—­Mr. Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel’s married sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine.  They came by the hotel where Jimmy still boarded, and he ran up to his room and brought along his suit-case.  Then they went on to the bank.  There stood Jimmy’s horse and buggy and Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the railroad station.

All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the banking-room—­Jimmy included, for Mr. Adams’s future son-in-law was welcome anywhere.  The clerks were pleased to be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss Annabel.  Jimmy set his suit-case down.  Annabel, whose heart was bubbling with happiness and lively youth, put on Jimmy’s hat, and picked up the suit-case.  “Wouldn’t I make a nice drummer?” said Annabel.  “My!  Ralph, how heavy it is?  Feels like it was full of gold bricks.”

“Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there,” said Jimmy, coolly, “that I’m going to return.  Thought I’d save express charges by taking them up.  I’m getting awfully economical.”

The Elmore Bank had just put in a new safe and vault.  Mr. Adams was very proud of it, and insisted on an inspection by every one.  The vault was a small one, but it had a new, patented door.  It fastened with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously with a single handle, and had a time-lock.  Mr. Adams beamingly explained its workings to Mr. Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too intelligent interest.  The two children, May and Agatha, were delighted by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs.

While they were thus engaged Ben Price sauntered in and leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the railings.  He told the teller that he didn’t want anything; he was just waiting for a man he knew.

Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and a commotion.  Unperceived by the elders, May, the nine-year-old girl, in a spirit of play, had shut Agatha in the vault.  She had then shot the bolts and turned the knob of the combination as she had seen Mr. Adams do.

The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a moment.  “The door can’t be opened,” he groaned.  “The clock hasn’t been wound nor the combination set.”

Agatha’s mother screamed again, hysterically.

“Hush!” said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand.  “All be quite for a moment.  Agatha!” he called as loudly as he could.  “Listen to me.”  During the following silence they could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror.

“My precious darling!” wailed the mother.  “She will die of fright!  Open the door!  Oh, break it open!  Can’t you men do something?”

“There isn’t a man nearer than Little Rock who can open that door,” said Mr. Adams, in a shaky voice.  “My God!  Spencer, what shall we do?  That child—­she can’t stand it long in there.  There isn’t enough air, and, besides, she’ll go into convulsions from fright.”