It was a valiant little speech.  But he was obliged to strive heroically to make his countenance fit his words of courage.  In facing the situation squarely he had been trying to make an estimate of the state of mind in Egypt.  He bitterly decided that the folks were lining up against the outlander.  As hateful as Britt had made himself, he was Egyptian, born and bred.  Vaniman knew what the wreck of the little bank signified in that town, which was already staggering under its debt burden.  How that bank had been wrecked was not clear to Vaniman, even when he gave the thing profound consideration.  He did not dare to declare to himself all that he suspected of the president.  Nor did he dare to believe that Britt would dump the whole burden on the cashier.  However, if Britt undertook such a play of perfidy, the outlander knew that the native would have the advantage in the exchange of accusation.

Vaniman perceived the existing state of affairs in the demeanor of the men whom he met on the street, going to and from the tavern.  He heard some of their remarks.  He strove to keep a calm face while his soul burned!

Then, at last, Examiner Starr acted.  He employed peculiar methods to fit a peculiar case.

One afternoon Starr sat and stared for some time at Vaniman.  They were alone in the bank.  Receiver Waite and Vona had gone away.

“Would you relish a little show?” inquired the examiner.

Vaniman had nerved himself against all kinds of surprise, he thought, but he was not prepared for this proffer of entertainment.  He frankly declared that he did not understand.

“Seeing that you are doubtful, we’ll have the show, anyway, and you can tell me later whether or not you relish it.”  He opened the door and called.  Bixby came in.  It was evident that Bixby had been waiting.

“All ready!” said Starr.

“All right!” said Bixby.

“I’ll say that Bixby, here, is an operator from a detective agency, in case you don’t know it,” explained the examiner.

“I do know it, sir!”

Bixby pulled off his overcoat.  Under it he wore a mohair office coat.  He yanked off that garment, ripped the sleeves, tore the back breadth, and threw the coat under a stool.  Then he secured a dustcloth from a hook, produced a small vial of chloroform, and poured some of the liquid on the cloth.  He poured more of the chloroform on his hair and his vest.  Then he laid down the cloth and got a roll of tape out of a drawer.  He cut off a length and made a noose, slipped it over his wrists, bent down and laid the end of the tape on the floor, stood on it, and pulled taut the noose until the flesh was ridged.  He stooped again and picked up two metal disks which Starr tossed on the floor; the detective did this easily, although his writs were noosed.

“Not the exact program, perhaps, but near enough,” Starr commented.

With equal ease Bixby laid the disks carefully on the flange of the sill of the vault.  Then he took the cloth from the desk, went to the vault, stooped and thumped his head up against the projecting lever.  He went into the vault and carefully pulled the door shut after him, both hands on the main bolt.