accounts that were spread before them in a book marked "Parish Register of Deaths." But there were no deaths registered in that book. It was full of figures accounting for cargoes of wool, full of receipts for coffins loaded with spirits.
Sexton Mipps and the gentleman who had worn the bottle-green coat then unlocked an old chest and took out certain money bags which they emptied on the table. The third gentleman, whom they addressed as the Scarecrow, helped them to sort the coin, French in one pile, English in another, and then referring to a list of names in the register, the three managers of the secret bank proportioned out their servants' wages. When this was accomplished the gentleman who had worn the bottle-green coat presented his little account, which was promptly paid in golden guineas, and he left them, saying that he was very sorry that it was the last time that he would draw so many golden Georges from the bank.
"Yes, the bank closes accounts to-day," said the Scarecrow, striking his name off the list, "though perhaps some day we shall open it again. Who knows?"
"Let's hope so," said the other, shaking hands with the Scarecrow and the sexton, "and let's hope we meet again. Good-bye." And he was gone, Mipps locking the door behind him.
"It's all right to a penny," said the Scarecrow.
"Hooray! I calls it," chuckled Sexton Mipps, rub-
