Some clever people who watched these intervals of comedy in the course of the tragedy which they believed was being enacted, said that Mr. Westwood had nerves of steel. Others of the visitors to the bank, not being clever enough to perceive that Mr. Westwood was acting a part with great ability, felt that they were fools in doubting the solvency of a concern the head of which could treat such an incident as a run on his bank as an everyday matter. They did not press forward with their cheques. They pocketed their cheques and looked ashamed. Mr. Westwood would have been greatly disappointed if they had continued to press forward. He had been a good friend to many of them. He knew that they would not have the courage to draw their balances under his very eyes, as if they believed him to be a rogue. And then his personal attendant came to tell him that his midday cup of coffee awaited him, and he said a word about Saturday's cricket match to the tradesmen before nodding good-bye. Before returning to his private room, however, he stood beside the cashier for a moment, and his smile changed to a slight frown. “Oh, Mr. Calmour, can you not contrive to be a little more expeditious?” he said. “We shall never get through all the business in the time if you are not a trifle quicker. Could not Mr. Combes make up rouleaux of ten and twenty sovereigns so as to have them ready for you to distribute? Come, Mr. Combes, stir yourself. Every cheque must be paid within the next hour.” Mr. Combes stirred himself--so did Mr. Calmour--yes, for a short time; then it seemed that he shovelled out the sovereigns with more deliberation than ever; for he had felt Mr. Westwood's toe pressing upon one of his own as he had given him that admonition to be more expeditious. The cashier had long ago recovered his wits. He was well aware of the fact that, although Mr. Westwood's style was calculated to allay distrust, yet every minute's delay might mean hundreds of pounds saved to the bank. He understood his business, and that was why he thought it prudent to count one of the piles of sovereigns passed to him by his assistant, young Mr. Combes, and to declare with some heat that it was a sovereign short, a proceeding that necessitated a second count, and the passing of the rouleaux back to the clerk. And this waste of time--this precious waste of time that went to save an old-established house from ruin--was watched by Richard Westwood from a clear corner half an inch in diameter in the stainedglass window of his private room door. He was not drinking his coffee. The cup, with a liqueur of cognac, stood on his desk untouched. He had fallen on his knees below the glass of his door, not to pray--though a prayer was in his heart--but in order to get his eye opposite that little clear space, which enabled him to observe, without being observed, all that went on outside.