. Is it here still?"

The attendant glanced at the shelf. "A wee deal box with iron bands.
It was took out ten minutes syne. A man brought the ticket and took it
away on his shoulder."

"Thank you. There's been a mistake, but the blame's mine. My man
mistook my orders."

Then he returned to the now nervous taxi-driver. "I've taken it up
with the station-master and he's putting the police on. You'll likely
be wanted, so I gave him your number. It's a fair disgrace that there
should be so many thieves about this station. It's not the first time
I've lost things. Drive me to West George Street and look sharp." And
he slammed the door with the violence of an angry man.

But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled to himself. "That
was pretty neat. They'll take some time to get the kist open, for I
dropped the key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael. That gives
me a fair start. If I hadn't thought of that, they'd have found some
way to grip me and ripe me long before I got to the Bank." He shuddered
as he thought of the dangers he had escaped. "As it is, they're off
the track for half an hour at least, while they're rummaging among
Auntie Phemie's scones." At the thought he laughed heartily, and when
he brought the taxi-cab to a standstill by rapping on the front window,
he left it with a temper apparently restored. Obviously he had no
grudge against the driver, who to his immense surprise was rewarded
with ten shillings.

Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have been seen entering the head
office of the Strathclyde Bank and inquiring for the manager. There was
no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on his native heath. The
chief cashier received him with deference in spite of his unorthodox
garb, for he was not the least honoured of the bank's customers. As it
chanced he had been talking about him that very morning to a gentleman
from London. "The strength of this city," he had said, tapping his
eyeglasses on his knuckles, "does not lie in its dozen very rich men,
but in the hundred or two homely folk who make no parade of wealth.
Men like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all their life in a
semi-detached villa and die worth half a million." And the Londoner
had cordially assented.

So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner room, and was warmly
greeted by Mr. Mackintosh, the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.

"I must thank you for your generous donation, McCunn. Those