Lake had chosen well. Arcadia in epitome was within those pillaged walls. Thompson was president of the rival bank. Alec was division superintendent. Turnbull was the mill-master. Clarke was editor of the _Arcadian Day_. Clarke had been early to the storm-center; yet, of all the investigators, Clarke alone was not more or less disheveled. He was faultlessly appareled--even to the long Prince Albert and black string tie--in which, indeed, report said, he slept. So much for capital, industry and the fourth estate. The last of the probers, whom Lake had drafted merely by the slighting personal pronoun "you," was nevertheless identifiable in private life by the name of Billy White--being, indeed, none other than our old friend the devil. His indigenous mustache still retained a Mephistophelian twist; he was becomingly arrayed in slippers, pajamas and a pink bathrobe, girdled at the waist with a most unhermitlike cord, having gone early and surly to bed. In this improvised committee he fitly represented Society: while the sheriff represented society at large and, ex officio, that incautious portion under duress. Yet one element was unrepresented; for Lake made a mistake which other great men have made--of failing to reckon with the masterless men, who dwell without the wall. Lake led the way. "Will the watchman die, Alec, d'you think?" whispered Billy, as they filed through the grilled door to the counting room. "Don't know. Hope not. Game old rooster. Good watchman, too," said Turnbull, the mill-superintendent. Lake turned on the lights. The wall-safe was blown open; fragments of the door were scattered among the overturned chairs. In an open recess in the vault there was a dull yellow mass; the explosion had spilled the front rows of coin to a golden heap. Behind, some golden rouleaus were intact: others tottered precariously, as you have perhaps seen beautiful tall stacks of colored counters do. Gold pieces were strewn along the floor. "Thank God, they didn't get all the gold anyhow!" said Lake, with a sigh of relief. "Then, of course, they didn't touch the silver; but there was a lot of greenbacks--over twenty-five thousand, I think. Bassett will know. And I don't know how much gold is gone. Look round and see if they left anything incriminating, sheriff, anything that we can trace them by." "He heard poor old Lars coming," said the sheriff. "Then, after he shot him, he hadn't the nerve to come back for the gold. This strikes me as being a bungler's job. Must have used an awful lot of dynamite to tear that door up like that! Funny no one heard the explosion. Can't be much of your gold gone, Lake. That compartment is pretty nearly as full as it will hold."