'Well, maybe. There was a mass of paperwork. I just signed where I was told. So did Mr Fusspot.'

'Ye gods, the lawyers would have fun with that,' said Sacharissa, her notebook magically appearing in her hand. 'And it's no joke, either.[8] He could end up in debtor's prison!'

'Kennel,' said Moist. 'He goes woof, remember? And that's not going to happen.'

Sacharissa bent down to pat Mr Fusspot on his little head, and froze in mid-bend. 'What has he got in his—?' she began.

'Sacharissa, can we go into this later? I really have not got time for it right now. I swear by any three gods you believe in, even though you are a journalist, that when this is over I will give you a story that will tax even the Times's ability to avoid inelegant and suggestive subjects. Trust me.'

'Yes, but it looks like a—' she began.

'Ah, so you do know what it is and I don't need to explain,' said Moist briskly.

He handed the newspaper back to its worried owner. 'You are Mr Cusper, aren't you?' he said. 'You have a balance of AM$7 with us, I believe?' For a moment the man looked impressed. Moist was really good at faces. 'I told you we aren't bothered about gold here,' said Moist.

'Yeah, but…' the man began. 'Well, it's not much of a bank if people can take the gold out of it, is it?' he said.

'But it doesn't make any difference,' said Moist. 'I did tell you all.'

They looked uncertain. In theory, they should be stampeding up the steps. Moist knew what was holding them back. It was hope. It was the little voice inside that said: this isn't really happening. It was the voice that drove people to turn out the same pocket three times in a fruitless search for lost keys. It was the mad belief that the world is bound to start working properly again if I truly believe, and there will be keys. It was the voice that said 'This can't be happening' very loudly, in order to drown out the creeping dread that it was.

He had about thirty seconds, while hope lasted.

And then the crowd parted. Pucci Lavish did not know how to make an entrance. Harry King, on the other hand, did. The milling, uncertain throng opened up like the sea in front of a hydrophobic prophet, leaving a channel that was suddenly lined on either side by large, weathered-looking men with broken noses and a useful cross-section of scars. Along this recent avenue strode Harry King trailing cigar smoke. Moist managed to stand his ground until Mr King was a foot away, and made sure to look him in the eye.

'How much money did I put in your bank, Mr Lipwig?' asked Harry.

'Er, I believe it was fifty thousand dollars, Mr King,' said Moist.

'Yes, I believe it was something like that,' said Mr King. 'Can yer guess what I am going to do now, Mr Lipwig?'

Moist did not guess. The Splot was still circulating in his system and in his brain the answer clanged like a funeral bell. 'You're going to put some more in, aren't you, Mr King?'

Harry King beamed, as if Moist was a dog that had just done a new trick. 'That's right, Mr Lipwig! I thought to myself: Harry, I thought.

Fifty thousand dollars seems a bit on the lonely side, so I've come along to round it up to sixty thousand.'

On signal, some more of Harry King's men came up behind him, carrying large chests between them. 'Most of it's gold and silver, Mr Lipwig,' said Harry. 'But I know you got lots of bright young men who can count it all up for you.'

'This is very kind of you, Mr King,' said Moist, 'but at any minute the auditors are going to come back and the bank is going to be in big, big trouble. Please! I can't accept your money.'

Harry leaned closer to Moist, enveloping him in cigar smoke and a hint of decayed cabbage. 'I know you're up to something,' he whispered, tapping the side of his nose. 'The bastards are out to get you, I can see that! I know a winner when I sees one, and I know you've got something up your sleeves, eh?'

'Just my arms, Mr King, just my arms,' said Moist.

'And long may you keep them,' said Harry, slapping him on the back.

The men filed past Moist and deposited their cases on the floor.

'I don't need a receipt,' said Harry. 'You know me, Mr Lipwig. You know you can trust me, just like I know I can trust you.'

Moist shut his eyes, just for a moment. To think that he had worried about ending the day hanging.

'Your money is safe with me, Mr King,' he said.

'I know,' said Harry King. 'And when you've won the day, I'll send young Wallace along and he'll have a little chat with your monkey about how much interest I'm gonna get paid on this little lot, all right? Fair's fair?'

'It certainly is, Mr King.'

'Right,' said Harry. 'Now I'm off to buy some land.'

There was some uncertain murmuring from the crowd, as he departed. The new deposit had thrown them. It had thrown Moist, too. People were wondering what Harry King knew. So did Moist. It was a terrible thing to have someone like Harry believing in you.

Now the crowd had evolved a spokesman, who said: 'Look, what's going on? Has the gold gone or not?'

'I don't know,' said Moist. 'I haven't had a look today.'

'You say that as if it doesn't matter,' said Sacharissa.

'Well, as I have explained,' Moist said, 'the city is still here. The bank is still here. I am still here.' He cast a glance towards Harry King's broad, retreating back. 'For the moment. So it doesn't look as if we need the gold cluttering up the place, do we?'

Cosmo Lavish appeared in the doorway behind Moist. 'So, Mr Lipwig, it would appear that you are a trickster to the end.'

'I beg your pardon?' said Moist.

Other members of the ad hoc audit committee were pushing their way out, looking satisfied. They had, after all, been woken up very early in the morning and those who are awakened very early in the morning expect to kill before breakfast.

'Have you finished already?' said Moist.

'Surely you must know why we were brought here,' said one of the bankers. 'You know very well that last night the City Watch found no gold in your vaults. We can confirm this unhappy state of affairs.'

'Oh well, you know how it is with money,' said Moist. 'You think you are broke and there it was all the time in your other trousers.'

'No, Mr Lipwig, the joke is on you,' said Cosmo. 'The bank is a sham.' He raised his voice. 'I would advise all the investors you have misled to take their money back while they can!'

'No! Squad, to me!' Commander Vimes pushed his way through the bewildered bankers at the same time as half a dozen troll officers pounded up the steps and ended up shoulder to shoulder in front of the double doors.

'Are you a bloody fool, sir?' said Vimes, nose to nose with Cosmo. 'That sounded to me like incitement to riot! This bank is closed until further notice!'

'I am a director of the bank, commander,' said Cosmo. 'You cannot keep me out.'

'Watch me,' said Vimes. 'I suggest you direct your complaint to his lordship. Sergeant Detritus!'

'Yessir!'

'Nobody goes in there without a chitty signed by me. And Mr Lipwig, you will not leave the city, understood?'

'Yes, commander.' Moist turned to Cosmo. 'You know, you're not looking well,' he said. 'That's not a good complexion you have there.'

'No more words, Lipwig.' Cosmo leaned down. Close to, his face looked even worse, like the face of a wax doll, if a wax doll could sweat. 'We'll meet in court. It's the end of the road, Mr Lipwig. Or should I say… Mr Spangler?'

Oh, gods, I should have done something about Cribbins, thought Moist. I was too busy trying to make money…

And there was Adora Belle, being ushered through the crowd by a couple of watchmen who were also acting as crutches. Vimes hurried down the steps as if he'd been expecting her.