The deacon was a man named Thomas Aikman, a baker by trade, a sharp business man, who considered himself the main pillar of that church. He fluttered into the building and showed the distinguished visitor to his own pew—if pew it could be called—placed books before her, and returned to the plate. There was an interval during which no other worshippers entered, and Mr Aikman spent the time in admiring that bank note as it lay in the plate, contrasting so deliciously with the thin strata of coppers below. It was a crisp note of the Bank of Scotland, and so new that it would not remain folded. Of course it had a number, and that number Mr Aikman declared he could not help noting, as the paper lay open before him. He did not mark down the number—did not think of doing so—but he had a good memory, and he could trust to that, and swear by his convictions. As he gazed the deacon rapidly ran up in his mind all that this bank note would do. There was a trifling debt on the building fund, and this would all but clear it off. There would be no difficulty in getting the other managers of the church to agree to that; they were afraid of the stout and pugnacious baker, and always hurriedly agreed to whatever he thought fit to propose. While he was settling this matter another stranger appeared, and placed a silver coin in the plate, at the same time asking to be shown to a seat. The half-crown which this gentleman dropped into the plate rested on the bank note already there, and thus the two contributions were left while the deacon went inside and showed the gentleman to his own form. Not a minute was occupied in the task, and during the interval only one person entered the church. That person was the Rev. Arthur Morrison, who appeared heated and flushed as he pressed past the deacon and made his way to the little desk from which he preached. Mr Aikman went straight back to his post at the plate, and the bank note being still prominent in his thoughts, he glanced at once in that direction. Then he started and rubbed his eyes. He himself had been the last to leave the spot—for the gentleman had preceded him into the church—and then the bank note lay in the plate all right, with the half-crown safely weighting it; now, when he got back, the note was gone. The half-crown was there—shining like a white disc among the coppers, but not a vestige of paper money was near it. The deacon looked around. There was no wind, but the note might have got over the edge of the plate, and fallen to the ground. No; it was not in the vestibule. Aikman darted outside; there was not a human being in sight. He staggered back again and stared at the plate till his goggling eyes might have speared a hole in it. There could be no doubt about it—the church had been robbed, and was the poorer by £5 of the deacon’s momentary absence. He had no one to advise or assist him, the other deacon on the list having failed to appear, and felt doubly angry and excited over the strange loss from