 To most readers of the Daily Newspapers, bank robberies are common and rather unmysterious events. But there is on record the strange story of a bank that was robbed without a gun and apparently without even a robber. The Midland Bank in Blackpool, England is what is known as an eminently sound institution and the only dubious incident which mars its long and honorable record of service is the one that occurred on August 6, 1926. It was on that Saturday at high noon when the doorman was just closing the doors that one of the Midland's regular clients entered the bank with a large bag and dress on. He was Mr. Lloyd Fenwick of the Corporation Tramways Department. Morning Mr. Fenwick. Eight hundred pounds in here, all treasury notes. I'll make out the slip for you, sir, but you'd better open the bank yourself. I don't know who else could open it. Got a new type of lock on it. No one could possibly open it unless they know the secret and I'm the only one who knows it. I've got another bag out in the motor van with all the silver in it. Save it up. Leave this one on the counter, I suppose. Oh yes, of course. Leave it where it is, then. As he turned away from the cashier's counter, Mr. Fenwick noticed that the bank was still quite crowded. Nevertheless, since it was now past the noon hour, the doorman had locked the doors to prevent late comers from entering. As he unlocked them for Mr. Fenwick, the Tramways official remarked, No need to lock up again, my friend. I'm coming right back in. But the doorman was a man of caution. During the few moments that Fenwick was gone, he stood by the closed doors, his hand on the key. When the official returned to the cashier's window, he carried another bag, smaller than the first one in his hand. Look out the treasury notes first, sir, if you don't mind. Makes no difference to me. Well, give it to me. Give it to me. Give the bag with the treasury notes. You must have put it away. I? Oh, no, sir. It's that. Right over here, where you... Good Lord, sir. It's gone. Yes, the black leather bag had vanished from the cashier's counter. What's more, it had vanished from the bank itself. The police were summoned, but a most thorough investigation failed to reveal its whereabouts. Fenwick, the cashier, and the police themselves were utterly mystified. At three o'clock that same afternoon, patrolman Cook was strolling down Needham Lane, just a block away from the Midland Bank. Oh, someone must have lost a bag. I say now, could this be the one what's missing from the bank? Tucking the bag under his arm, patrolman Cook made his way quickly to the Central Police Station. And there, while one of the officers got in touch with the tramway department, the others took turns trying to open the lock. But the lock refused to yield. They were still working over it when Mr Fenwick arrived. This is it, gentlemen. My only hope, the money's still there. The lock's still closed, isn't it? That simply means no one could open it. None of us here could make the blooming thing work, sir. No. You just take a hold of it like this, see? Ah. And you insert the key. Good Scott. The Treasury notes, it was not in the bag. Though every indication pointed to the fact that the bag had not been opened, that it could not possibly have been opened, nevertheless the money was missing. And while this was remarkable in itself, it was no more remarkable than the bag's disappearance from the bank through a door that was locked and guarded. The 800 pounds were never found. And neither was a solution to the strange mystery, a mystery incredible but true.