Methodists, that were known up and down the Dominion, and nobody enjoyed them more than he did himself.  He had once worn his hair in a high curl on his scholarly forehead, and a silvering tuft remained brushed upright; he took the old-fashioned precaution of putting cotton wool in his ears, which gave him more than ever the look of something highly concentrated and conserved but in no way detracted from his dignity.  St Andrew’s folk accused him of vanity because of the diamond he wore on his little finger.  He was by no means handsome, but he was intensely individual; perhaps he had vanity; his people would have forgiven him worse things.  And at Mrs Murchison’s tea party he was certainly, as John Murchison afterward said, “in fine feather.”

An absorbing topic held them, a local topic, a topic involving loss and crime and reprisals.  The Federal Bank had sustained a robbery of five thousand dollars. and in the course of a few days had placed their cashier under arrest for suspected complicity.  Their cashier was Walter Ormiston, the only son of old Squire Ormiston, of Moneida Reservation, ten miles out of Elgin, who had administered the affairs of the Indians there for more years than the Federal Bank had existed.  Mr Williams brought the latest news, as was to be expected; news flowed in rivulets to Mr Williams all day long; he paid for it, dealt in it, could spread or suppress it.

“They’ve admitted the bail,” Mr Williams announced, with an air of self-surveillance.  Rawlins had brought the intelligence in too late for the current issue, and Mr Williams was divided between his human desire to communicate and his journalistic sense that the item would be the main feature of the next afternoon’s Express.

“I’m glad of that.  I’m glad of that,” repeated Dr Drummond.  “Thank you, Mrs Murchison, I’ll send my cup.  And did you learn, Williams, for what amount?”

Mr Williams ran his hand through his hair in the effort to remember, and decided that he might as well let it all go.  The Mercury couldn’t fail to get it by tomorrow anyhow.

“Three thousand,” he said.  “Milburn and Dr Henry Johnson.”

“I thought Father was bound to be in it,” remarked Dr Harry.

“Half and half?” asked John Murchison.

“No,” contributed Mrs Williams.  “Mr Milburn two and Dr Henry one.  Mr Milburn is Walter’s uncle, you know.”

Mr Williams fastened an outraged glance on his wife, who looked another way.  Whatever he thought proper to do, it was absolutely understood that she was to reveal nothing of what “came in,” and was even carefully to conserve anything she heard outside with a view to bringing it in.  Mrs Williams was too prone to indiscretion in the matter of letting news slip prematurely; and as to its capture, her husband would often confess, with private humour, that Minnie wasn’t much of a mouser.

“Well, that’s something to be thankful for,” said Mrs Murchison.  “I lay awake for two hours last night thinking of that boy in jail, and his poor old father, seventy-nine years of age, and such a fine old man, so thoroughly respected.”