Ericsson and Asherton-Smith were still sipping their brandy, but they were no longer gloating over their prey with shining eyes--they no longer counted their prospective millions. Like the greedy fox they had dropped the substance for the shadow. They were going to be ruined with their victims. With moody, furtive, bloodshot eyes they looked at each other. "I suppose we can't drop a hint," Ericsson suggested. "Drop a hint," Asherton-Smith sneered. "You're a clever chap, you are--too clever by half. But if that's all the idea you've got you'd better shut up. Perhaps you'd like to go and tell the story to the Lord Mayor?" Ericsson's fine turn for repartee seemed to have deserted him. "Who could have anticipated anything like this?" he groaned. "And the worst of it is that we dare not say a word. The merest hint would invite suspicion, and you may be pretty sure that they would make the punishment fit the crime. We'll just have to grin and bear it." Asherton-Smith shook his fist in the speaker's face. "You miserable swindler!" he yelled. "But for you I should have been a rich man to-day. And now I am ruined--ruined!" Ericsson bent his head meekly with never a word to say. * * * * * The City was awake earlier than usual next morning; indeed, for once, it had not slept. By nine o'clock in the morning the streets were packed. The haggard-eyed, sleepless ones gained nothing by their tenacity, for they were pushed from pillar to post by others, fresh for the fray. The provincial trains from an early hour had commenced to pour fresh forces into London. A great many business men had slept as best they could in their offices, feeling pretty sure that it was the only way to be on the spot in the morning. They looked tired and worn out. It was a quiet, persistent, grim crowd. There was no hustling or horse-play, or anything of that kind; even the ubiquitous humourist was absent. They pushed on persistently, a denser crowd round the large banks. As soon as the shutters were down and the doors opened the human tide streamed in. The run on the banks had set in grimly. Clerks and cashiers from distant branches had been brought up to meet the pressure. There was a confidence in the way they bustled about and handled and paid out the money that was not without its effect. More than one man eyed the pile of notes in his hand and passed them back over the counter again. Here and there people were bewailing the loss of their money. It was the golden hour of the light-fingered fraternity. They were absolutely covered by the dense crowd so that they could pursue their vocation with impunity. They had only to mark down some rich prize and plunder. Individuals shrieked that they had been robbed, but nobody took any notice. A burly, red-faced farmer yelled that he had been robbed of £800 in Bank of England notes. Someone by him retorted that it was no loss, seeing that there was a run on the great National Bank.