me so hard: I was at the door. Such a beautiful girl! I could not take my eyes off her."
"The child?" said Bartley, with natural impatience.
"I have hidden her in the yard."
"Bring her this moment, while the clerks are out."
Hope hurried out, and soon returned with his child, wrapped up in a nice warm shawl he had bought her with Bartley's money.
Bartley took the child from him, looked at her face, and said, "Little darling, I shall love her as my own;" then he begged Hope to sit down in the lobby till he should call him and introduce him to his clerks. "One of them is a thief, I'm afraid."
He took the child inside, and gave her to his confederate, the nurse.
"Dear me," thought Hope, "only two clerks, and one of them dishonest. I hope it is not that good-natured boy. Oh no! impossible."
And now Bartley returned, and at the same time Monckton came briskly in through the little office.
At sight of him Bartley said, "Oh, Monckton, I gave that fellow Bolton a week's notice. But he insists on going directly," Monckton replied, slyly, that he was sorry to hear that.
"Suspicious? Eh?" said Bartley.
"So suspicious that if I were you—Indeed, Mr. Bartley, I think, in justice to me, the matter ought to be cleared to the bottom."
"You are right," said Bartley: "I'll have him searched before he goes.
Fetch me a detective at once."
Bartley then wrote a line upon his card, and handed it to Monckton, directing him to lose no time. He then rushed out of the house with an air of virtuous indignation, and went to make some delicate arrangements to carry out a fraud, which, begging his pardon, was as felonious, though not so prosaic, as the one he suspected his young clerk of. Monckton was at first a little taken aback by the suddenness of all this; but he was too clear-headed to be long at fault. The matter was brought to a point. Well, he must shoot flying.
In a moment he was at the safe, whipped out a bunch of false keys, opened the safe, took out the cash-box, and swept all the gold it contained into his own pockets, and took possession of the notes. Then he locked up the cash-box again, restored it to the safe, locked that, and sat down at Bartley's table. He ran over the notes with feverish fingers, and then took the precaution to examine Bartley's day-book. His caution was rewarded—he found that the notes Bolton had brought in were numbered. He instantly made two parcels—clapped the unnumbered notes into his pocket. The numbered ones he took in his hand into the lobby. Now this lobby must be shortly described. First there was a door with a glass window, but the window had dark blue gauze fixed to it, so that nobody could see into the lobby from the office; but a person in the lobby, by putting his eye close to the gauze, could see into the office in a filmy sort of way. This door opened on a lavatory, and there were also pegs on which the clerks hung their overcoats. Then there was a swing-door leading direct to the street, and sideways into a small room indispensable to every office.
Monckton entered this lobby, and inserted the numbered notes into young Clifford's coat, and the false keys into his bag. Then he whipped back hastily into the office, with his craven face full of fiendish triumph.
He started for the detective. But it was bitter cold, and he returned to the lobby for his own overcoat. As he opened the lobby door the swing-door moved, or he thought so; he darted to it and opened it, but saw nobody, Hope having whipped behind the open door of the little room. Monckton then put on his overcoat, and went for the detective.
He met Clifford at the door, and wore an insolent grin of defiance, for which, if they had not passed each other rapidly, he would very likely have been knocked down. As it was, Walter Clifford entered the office flushed with wrath, and eager to leave behind him the mortifications and humiliations he had endured.
He went to his own little desk and tore up Lucy Mailer's letters, and his heart turned toward home. He went into the lobby, and, feeling hot, which was no wonder, bundled his office overcoat and his brush and comb into his bag. He returned to the office for his penknife, and was going out all in a hurry, when Mr. Bartley met him.
Bartley looked rather stern, and said, "A word with you, sir."
"Certainly, sir," said the young man, stiffly.
Mr. Bartley sat down at his table and fixed his eyes upon the young man with a very peculiar look.
"You seem in a very great hurry to go."
"Well, I am."
"You have not even demanded your salary up to date."
"Excuse the oversight; I was not made for business, you know."
"There is something more to settle besides your salary."
"Premium for good conduct?"
"No, sir. Mr. Bolton, you will find this no jesting matter. There are defalcations in the accounts, sir."
The young man turned serious at once. "I am sorry to hear that, sir," said he, with proper feeling.
Bartley eyed him still more severely. "And even cash abstracted."
"Good heavens!" said the young man, answering his eyes rather than his words. "Why, surely you can't suspect me?"
Bartley answered, sternly, "I know I have been robbed, and so I suspect everybody whose conduct is suspicious."
This was too much for a Clifford to bear. He turned on him like a lion.
"Your suspicions disgrace the trader who entertains them, not the
gentleman they wrong. You are too old for me to give you a thrashing, so
I won't stay here any longer to be insulted."
He snatched up his bag and was marching off, when the door opened, and
Monckton with a detective confronted him.
"No," roared Bartley, furious in turn; "but you will stay to be examined."
"Examined!"
"Searched, then, if you like it better."
"No, don't do that," said the young fellow. "Spare me such a humiliation."
Bartley, who was avaricious, but not cruel, hesitated.
"Well," said he, "I will examine the safe before I go further."
Mr. Bartley opened the safe and took out the cash-box. It was empty. He uttered a loud exclamation. "Why, it's a clean sweep! A wholesale robbery! Notes and gold all gone! No wonder you were in such a hurry to leave! Luckily some of the notes were numbered. Search him."
"No, no. Don't treat me like a thief!" cried the poor boy, almost sobbing.
"If you are innocent, why object?" said Monckton, satirically.
"You villain," cried Clifford, "this is your doing! I am sure of it!"
Monckton
