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TOTT was at his desk early, for banking-hours ran long in Cottonwood. After the habit of bankers, who seem to be so eager that the world see what they are doing, when in reality so little of it is ever known, Stott's desk was near the one window in the front of the brick building on the corner.

This was a low structure, built especially for the bank, and it was an ugly and uninviting place for any man to enter and leave his money. The word "Bank" was cut into the limestone lintel of the door, and painted again in gilt across the window near which Stott displayed his financial prowess.

As seen from the street that morning, Henry Stott was a figure to inspire a sense of solidity, even if one could read no deeper at a passing glance through his gilt-adorned window-pane. He was a large man, at work without a coat, heavy suspenders over his white shirt, no necktie to his collar; a man of pasty-whiteness, of broad, soft face, and small eyes placed so far apart that they looked as if