“Britt, you’d better put up a sign of ‘Lunatic Avenue’ over that passage and invite a general parade through,” barked Starr.  “I’ve had plenty of nightmares in my life, but never anything to equal this one, take it by and large!”

It was evident from President Britt’s countenance that a great many emotions were struggling in him; but the prevailing expression—­the one which seemed to embrace all the modifications of his emotions—­indicated that he felt thoroughly sick.  He gazed at the open door of his vault and looked as a man might appear after realizing that the presentation of a wooden popgun had made him turn over his pocketbook to a robber.  “Walked in? Walked in?” he reiterated.

The stress of the occasion seemed to have made the Prophet less incoherent than was his wont; or perhaps he found no texts to fit this situation.  “I did not dive through your solid steel, Pharaoh!  I used my eyes, after I had used my ears.  Here!” His fists had been doubled.  He unclasped his hands and held them forward.  In each palm was one of the metal disks.  “Your bank-vault door was trigged with these—­wedged in the crack of the outer flange.  I saw, I pulled hard on the big handle—­and here I am!”

“But the bolts—­” Starr stopped, trying to remember about the bolts.

“The bolts were not shot.  You were trying to push back what had already been pushed.”

Starr began to scratch the back of his head, in the process tipping his hat low over his eyes.  He turned those eyes on Vaniman.  “Speaking of pushing—­of being able to push—­” But the examiner did not allow himself to go any farther at that time.  “Vaniman,” he blurted, after a few moments of meditation, “I want you to volunteer to do something—­of your own free will, understand!”

Vaniman, pallid again, was fully aware of the effect of this new revelation on his position, already more than questionable.  “I’ll follow any suggestion, of my own free will, sir.”

“We’d better arrange to have a private talk to-night before we go to sleep, and another talk when we wake up.  I suggest that you come to the tavern and lodge with me.”

“It’s a good plan, Mr. Starr,” the cashier returned, bravely.

But in the distressed glance which Frank and Vona exchanged they both confessed that they knew he was politely and unofficially under arrest.

“I’ll keep Dorsey on the premises and will stay here, myself,” proffered the president.  “You can be sure that things will take no harm during the night, Mr. Starr.”

“So far as your bank goes, there doesn’t seem to be much left to harm, Britt,” snapped back the examiner.  He fished one of the disks from his vest pocket and surveyed it grimly.  “As to these assets, whatever they may be, I don’t think you need to fear—­except that small boys may want to steal ’em to use for sinkers or to scale on the water next summer.  What are they, anyway?  Does anybody know?”