A Detective's Story

From Belgravia.

The Moreton Bank was a joint stock affair to the North, with several branches. Each branch was under a separate manager, with high pay, good social position and liberty to do very much as he liked, for the central board of directors had great confidence in their men, and everything worked, very smoothly and successfully. All the managers were men who had been from boys in the bank’s employ, and were very well paid and thought much of by the surrounding gentry.

Well, business was slack, and I was sitting in my little office one October day when my head (and only) clerk showed in a visitor. This was Mr. Sherrie, a solicitor in good standing in the city, much in favor with commercial men. I had had two or three things before from him.

He was a man of few words, and liked men of the same sort.

“Stanning,” said he, “there’s a thing in your line one of my country clients was consulting me about. You, I know, can keep your tongue between your teeth, or you’d never have had anything from me. Well, keep it closer than ever, for not one knows about this affair but my client, you, me, and—the thief. The Moreton Bank is being robbed. How, nobody knows. That’s for you to find out. Here’s your note of introduction to Mr. Dale, the manager. Go as soon as you can. Do credit to my introduction. Good-morning.”

Well, I was rather glad of the job so that by 6 that evening I was in the town of Moreton; a big but dull place, though I should say there’s a good deal of cash and property about.

I saw Mr. Dale as soon as I could. He was a keen sort of man, with bright eyes, quick voice, and iron gray moustache and beard; over fifty. Wife pretty, and very nice mannered; no children. They made me welcome, asked me to take refreshments, and soon Mr. Dale had evidently, like a sensible man, told no one of my errand, for, on… Read More