Duval, but he did not dare to do so. He knew that the man was well
able to annoy him, and he would not on any account have had the affair
disclosed to his father or Mr. Danforth.
As Trinity clock struck eight, he entered a low bar-room in the
neighborhood of the docks.
A young man with pale, sandy hair stood behind the counter with his
sleeves rolled up. He was supplying the wants of a sailor who already
appeared to have taken more drink than was good for him.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawkins,” said he, “you're a stranger.”
“Is Duval in?” inquired Dawkins, coldly. His pride revolted at the place
and company. He had never been here but once before, having met Duval
elsewhere.
“He's up in his room. John show the young gentleman up to No. 9. Won't
you have a glass of something this evening?”
“No,” said Dawkins, abruptly.
The boy preceded him up a dark and dirty staircase.
“That's the room, sir,” he said.
“Stop a minute,” said Dawkins, “he may not be in.”
He inwardly hoped he might not. But Duval answered his knock by coming
to the door himself.
“Delighted to see you, mon ami. John, may leave the lamp. That's all,
unless Mr. Dawkins wishes to order something.”
“I want nothing,” said Dawkins.
“They have some capital brandy.”
“I am not in the mood for drinking tonight.”
“As you please,” said the Frenchman, disappointed; “be seated.”
Dawkins sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, minus an arm.
“Well,” said Duval, “how much money have you brought me?”
“None.”
The Frenchman frowned and stroked his mustache, fiercely.
“What does all this mean? Are you going to put me off longer?”
“I would pay it if I could,” said Dawkins, “but I haven't got the
money.”
“You could get it.”
“How?”
“Ask your father.”
“My father would rave if he knew that I had lost money in such a way.”
“But you need not tell him.”
“If I ask for money, he will be sure to ask what I want it for.”
“Tell him you want clothes, or a watch, or a hundred things.”
Dawkins shook his head; “it won't do,” said he. “He wouldn't give me a
hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Then ask seventy-five, and I will wait a month for the rest.”
“Look here, Duval, you have no rightful claim to this money. You've got
enough out of me. Just tear up the paper.”
Duval laughed scornfully, “Aha, Mr. Dawkins,” he said, “that would be
a very pretty arrangement FOR YOU. But I don't see how it is going to
benefit me. No, no, I can't afford to throw away a hundred and fifty
dollars so easily. If I was a rich man like your father it would make a
difference.”
“Then you won't remit the debt,” said Dawkins, sullenly.
“You would think me a great ninny, if I did.”
“Then you may collect it the best way you can.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded the Frenchman, his face darkening.
“I mean what I say,” said Dawkins, desperately, “Gambling debts are not
recognizable in law.”
“Nothing is said about it's being a gambling debt. I have your note.”
“Which is worth nothing, since I am a minor.”
Duval's face became black with rage.
“Aha, my friend,” said he showing his teeth, “this is a very nice game
to cheat me out of my money. But it won't do, it won't do.”
“Why won't it?”
“I shall say a word in your father's ear, mon ami, and in the ear of
your worthy employer whom you were so anxious for me not to see, and
perhaps that would be worse for you than to pay me my money.”
Dawkins's brief exultation passed away. He saw that he was indeed in the
power of an unscrupulous man, who was disposed to push his advantage to
the utmost.
He subsided into a moody silence, which Duval watched with satisfaction.
“Well, my friend, what will you do about it?”
“I don't know what I can do.”
“You will think of something. You will find it best,” said the
Frenchman, in a tone which veiled a threat.
“I will try,” said Dawkins, gloomily.
“That is well. I thought you would listen to reason, mon ami. Now we
will have a pleasant chat. Hold, I will order some brandy myself.”
“Not for me,” said Dawkins, rising from his chair, “I must be going.”
“Will you not have one little game?” asked Duval, coaxingly.
“No, no, I have had enough of that. Goodnight.”
“Then you won't stop. And when shall I have the pleasure of seeing you
at my little apartment once more?”
“I don't know.”
“If it is any trouble to you to come, I will call at your office,” said
Duval, significantly.
“Don't trouble yourself,” said Dawkins, hastily; “I will come here a
week from today.”
“A week is a long time.”
“Long or short, I must have it.”
“Very well, mon ami. A week let it be. Good-night. Mind the stairs as
you go down.”
Dawkins breathed more freely as he passed out into the open air. He was
beginning to realize that the way of the transgressor is hard.
XXX.
A TRAP IS LAID FOR PAUL.
Three months before, George Dawkins had made his first visit to a
gambling house. At first, he had entered only from curiosity. He watched
the play with an interest which gradually deepened, until he was easily
persuaded to try his own luck. The stakes were small, but fortune
favored him, and he came out some dollars richer than he entered. It
would have been fortunate for him if he had failed. As it was, his
good fortune encouraged him to another visit. This time he was less
fortunate, but his gains about balanced his losses, so that he came out
even. On the next occasion he left off with empty pockets. So it went on
until at length he fell into the hands of Duval, who had no scruple in
fleecing him to as great an extent as he could be induced to go.
George Dawkins's reflections were not of the most cheerful character as,
leaving Duval, he slowly pursued his way homeward. He felt that he had
fallen into the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would have no
mercy upon him. He execrated his own folly, without which all the
machination of Duval would have been without effect.
The question now, however, was, to raise the money. He knew of no one
to whom he could apply except his father, nor did he have much hope from
that quarter. Still, he would make the effort.
Reaching home he found his father seated in the library. He looked up
from the evening paper as George entered.
“Only half-past nine,” he said, with an air of sarcasm. “You spend your
evenings out so systematically that your early return surprises me. How
is it? Has the theater begun to lose its charm!”
There was no great sympathy between father and son, and if either felt
affection for the other, it was never manifested. Mutual recrimination
was the rule between them, and George would now have made an angry
answer but that he had a favor to ask, and felt it politic to be
conciliatory.
“If I had supposed you cared for my society, sir, I would have remained
at home oftener.”
“Umph!” was the only reply elicited from his father.
“However, there was a good reason for my not going to the theater
to-night.”
“Indeed!”
“I had no money.”
“Your explanation is quite satisfactory,” said his father, with a slight
sneer. “I sympathize in your disappointment.”
“There is no occasion, sir,” said George, good humoredly, for him. “I
had no great desire to go.”
Dawkins took down a book from the library and tried to read, but
without much success. His thoughts continually recurred to his pecuniary
embarrassments, and the debt which he owed to Duval seemed to hang like
a millstone around his neck. How should he approach his father on the
subject? In his present humor he feared he would have little chance.
As his father laid down the newspaper Dawkins said, “Wouldn't you like a
game of checkers, sir?”
This, as he well knew, was a favorite game with his father.
“I don't know but I should,” said Mr. Dawkins, more graciously than was
his wont.
The checker-board was brought, and the two commenced playing. Three
games were played all of which his father won. This appeared to put
him in a good humor, for as the two ceased playing, he drew a
ten-dollar-bill from his pocket-book, and handed to his son, with the
remark, “There, George, I don't want you to be penniless. You are a
little extravagant, though, I think. Your pay from Mr. Danforth ought to
keep you in spending money.”
“Yes, sir, I have been rather extravagant, but I am going to reform.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“I wish, sir,” said George a moment afterwards, “that you would allow me
to buy my own clothes.”
“I've no sort of an objection, I am sure. You select them now, don't
you?”
“Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance
for that purpose,--about as much as it costs now,--and give me the money
to spend where I please.”
Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.
“The result would probably be,” he said, “that the money would be
expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice
over.”
Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that
he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.
“No,” continued his father, “I don't like the arrangement you propose.
When you need clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course
not exceeding reasonable limits.”
“But,” said Dawkins, desperately, “I don't like Bradshaw's style of
making clothes. I would prefer trying some other tailor.”
“What fault have you to find with Bradshaw? Is he not one of the most
fashionable tailors in the city?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so, but----”
“Come, sir, you are growing altogether too particular. All your garments
set well, so far as I can judge.”
“Yes, sir, but one likes a change sometimes,” persisted George, a little
embarrassed for further objections.
“Well,” said Mr. Dawkins, after a pause, “If you are so strongly bent
upon a new tailor, select one, and order what you need. You can tell him
to send in his bill to me.”
“Thank you sir,” said his son, by no means pleased at the manner in
which his request had been granted. He saw that it would in no manner
promote the plan which he had in view, since it would give him no
command of the ready money. It is hardly necessary to say that his
alleged dissatisfaction with his father's tailor had all been trumped
up for the occasion, and would never have been thought of but for the
present emergency.
“What shall I do!” thought Dawkins, in perplexity, as he slowly
undressed himself and retired to bed.
The only true course, undoubtedly, was to confess all to his father,
to incur the storm of reproaches which would have followed as the just
penalty of his transgression, and then the haunting fear of discovery
would have been once and forever removed. But Dawkins was not brave
enough for this. He thought only of escaping from his present difficulty
without his father's knowledge.
He rose the next morning with the burden of care still weighing upon
him. In the evening the thought occurred to him that he might retrieve
his losses where he had incurred them, and again he bent his steps to
the gambling house. He risked five dollars, being one-half of what he
had. This was lost. Desperately he hazarded the remaining five dollars,
and lost again.
With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet, and left the brilliant room,
more gloomy and discouraged than ever. He was as badly off as before,
and penniless beside. He would have finished the evening at the theater,
but his recent loss prevented that. He lounged about the streets till it
was time to go to bed, and then went home in a very unsatisfactory state
of mind.
A day or two after, he met on Broadway the man whom of all others he
would gladly have avoided.
“Aha, my friend, I am glad to meet you,” said Duval, for it was he.
Dawkins muttered something unintelligible, and would have hurried on,
but Duval detained him.
“Why are you in such a hurry, my friend?” he said.
“Business,” returned Dawkins, shortly.
“That reminds me of the little business affair between us, mon ami. Have
you got any money for me?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet! It is three days since we saw each other. Could you not do
something in three days?”
“I told you I required a week,” said Dawkins, roughly, “Let go my arm. I
tell you I am in haste.”
“Very well, mon ami,” said Duval, slowly relinquishing his hold, “take
care that you do not forget. There are four days more to the week.”
Dawkins hurried on feeling very uncomfortable. He was quite aware that
four days hence he would be as unprepared to encounter the Frenchman as
now. Still, something might happen.
Something, unfortunately, did happen.
The next day Mr. Danforth was counting a roll of bills which had been
just paid in, when he was unexpectedly called out of the counting-room.
He unguardedly left the bills upon his own desk. Dawkins saw them lying
there. The thought flashed upon him, “There lies what will relieve me
from all my embarrassment.”
Allowing himself scarcely a minute to think, he took from the roll four
fifty dollar notes, thrust one into the pocket of Paul's overcoat, which
hung up in the office, drew off his right boot and slipped the other
three into the bottom of it, and put it on again. He then nervously
resumed his place at his desk. A moment afterwards, Paul, who had been
to the post-office, entered with letters which he carried into the inner
office and deposited on Mr. Danforth's desk. He observed the roll
of bills, and thought his employer careless in leaving so much money
exposed, but said nothing on the subject to Dawkins, between whom and
himself there was little communication.
XXXI.
CONVICTED OF THEFT.
Half an hour later Mr. Danforth returned.
“Has any one been here?” he asked as he passed through the outer office.
“No, sir,” said Dawkins, with outward composure though his heart was
beating rapidly.
While apparently intent upon his writing he listened attentively to what
might be going on in the next room. One,--two,--three minutes passed.
Mr. Danforth again showed himself.
“Did you say that no one has been here?” he demanded, abruptly.
“No, sir.”
“Have either of you been into my office since I have been out?”
“I have not, sir,” said Dawkins.
“I went in to carry your letters,” said Paul.
“Did you see a roll of bills lying on my desk?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul, a little surprised at the question.
“I have just counted it over, and find but six hundred dollars instead
of eight hundred. Can you account for the discrepancy?”
Mr. Danforth looked keenly at the two boys. Dawkins, who had schooled
himself to the ordeal, maintained his outward calmness. Paul, beginning
to perceive that his honesty was called in question, flushed.
“No, sir,” said the boys simultaneously.
“It can hardly be possible, that Mr. Thompson, who is a very careful
man, should have made such a mistake in paying me,” resumed Mr.
Danforth.
“As we have been the only persons here,” said Dawkins, “the only way to
vindicate ourselves from suspicion is, to submit to a search.”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul promptly.
Both boys turned their pockets inside out, but the missing money was not
found.
“There is my overcoat, sir,” said Dawkins, “will you be kind enough to
search it for yourself?”
Next, of course, Paul's overcoat was searched.
What was our hero's dismay when from one of the pockets Mr. Danforth
produced a fifty dollar bill.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed in as much grief as surprise, “Unhappy
boy, how came you by this money in your pocket?”
“I don't know, sir,” returned Paul, his cheek alternately flushing and
growing pale.
“I wish I could believe you,” said Mr. Danforth; “where have you put the
other bills? Produce them, and I may overlook this first offense.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Paul, in great distress, “I have not the slightest
knowledge of how this bill came into my pocket. I hope you will believe
me, sir.”
“How can I? The money evidently did not go into your pocket without
hands.”
A sudden thought came to Paul. “Dawkins,” said he, “did you put that
money into my pocket?”
“What do you mean, sir?” returned Dawkins, haughtily. “Is it your
intention to insult me?”
Dawkins could not prevent his face from flushing as he spoke, but this
might easily be referred to a natural resentment of the imputation cast
upon him.
“Paul,” said his employer, coldly, “you will not help your own cause
by seeking to involve another. After what has happened you can hardly
expect me to retain you in my employment. I will not make public your
disgrace, nor will I inquire farther for the remainder of the money for
which you have been willing to barter your integrity. I will pay your
wages up to the end of this week, and----”
“Mr. Danforth,” said Paul, manfully, though the tears almost choked his
utterance, “I am sorry that you have no better opinion of me. I do not
want the balance of my wages. If I have taken so large a sum which did
not belong to me, I have no claim to them. Good-morning, sir. Sometime I
hope you will think better of me.”
Paul put on his coat, and taking his cap from the nail on which it hung,
bowed respectfully to his employer and left the office.
Mr. Danforth looked after him, and seemed perplexed. Could Paul be
guilty after all?
“I never could have suspected him if I had not this evidence in my
hand,” said Mr. Danforth, to himself, fixing his eyes upon the bill
which he had drawn from Paul's overcoat.
“Dawkins, did you observe whether Paul remained long in the office?” he
asked.
“Longer than sufficient to lay the letters on the desk?”
“Yes, sir, I think he did.”
“Did you notice whether he went to his overcoat after coming out?”
“Yes, sir, he did,” said Dawkins, anxious to fix in Mr. Danforth's mind
the impression of Paul's guilt.
“Then I am afraid it is true,” said his employer sadly. “And yet, what a
fine, manly boy he is too. But it is a terrible fault.”
Mr. Danforth was essentially a kind-hearted man, and he cared much more
for Paul's dereliction from honesty than for the loss of the money.
Going home early to dinner, he communicated to his wife the unpleasant
discovery which he had made respecting Paul.
Now, from the first, Paul had been a great favorite with Mrs. Danforth,
and she scouted at the idea of his dishonesty.
“Depend upon it, Mr. Danforth,” she said decisively, “you have done the
boy an injustice. I have some skill in reading faces, and I tell you
that a boy with Paul Prescott's open, frank expression is incapable of
such a crime.”
“So I should have said, my dear, but we men learn to be less trustful
than you ladies, who stay at home and take rose-colored views of life.
Unfortunately, we see too much of the dark side of human nature.”
“So that you conclude all to be dark.”
“Not so bad as that.”
“Tell me all the circumstances, and perhaps a woman's wit may help you.”
Mr. Danforth communicated all the details, with which the reader is
already familiar.
“What sort of a boy is this Dawkins?” she asked, “Do you like him?”
“Not particularly. He does his duties passably well. I took him into my
counting-room to oblige his father.”
“Perhaps he is the thief.”
“To tell the truth I would sooner have suspected him.”
“Has he cleared himself from suspicion?”
“He was the first to suggest a search.”
“Precisely the thing he would have done, if he had placed the bill
in Paul's pocket. Of course he would know that the search must result
favorably for him.”
“There is something in that.”
“Besides, what could have been more foolish, if Paul wished to hide the
money, than to multiply his chances of detection by hiding it in two
different places, especially where one was so obvious as to afford no
concealment at all.”
“Admitting this to be true, how am I to arrive at the proof of Paul's
innocence?”
“My own opinion is, that George Dawkins has the greater part of the
money stolen. Probably he has taken it for some particular purpose. What
it is, you may learn, perhaps, by watching him.”
“I will be guided by your suggestion. Nothing would afford me greater
pleasure than to find that I have been mistaken in assuming Paul's
guilt, though on evidence that seemed convincing.”
This conversation took place at the dinner-table. Mr. Danforth
understood that no time was to be lost if he expected to gain any
information from the movements of his clerk.
George Dawkins had ventured upon a bold act, but he had been apparently
favored by fortune, and had succeeded. That he should have committed
this crime without compunction could hardly be expected. His uneasiness,
however, sprang chiefly from the fear that in some way he might yet
be detected. He resolved to get rid of the money which he had
obtained dishonestly, and obtain back from Duval the acknowledgment of
indebtedness which he had given him.
You will perhaps ask whether the wrong which he had done Paul affected
him with uneasiness. On the contrary, it gratified the dislike which
from the first he had cherished towards our hero.
“I am well rid of him, at all events,” he muttered to himself, “that is
worth risking some thing for.”
When office hours were over Dawkins gladly threw down his pen, and left
the counting-room.
He bent his steps rapidly towards the locality where he had before met
Duval. He had decided to wait some time before meeting that worthy. He
had to wait till another day, when as he was emerging from the tavern he
encountered the Frenchman on the threshold.
“Aha, my good friend,” said Duval, offering his hand, which Dawkins did
not appear to see, “I am very glad to see you. Will you come in?”
“No, I have not time,” said Dawkins, shortly.
“Have you brought me my money?”
“Yes.”
“Aha, that is well. I was just about what you call cleaned out.”
“Have you my note with you?”
Duval fumbled in his pocket-book, and finally produced the desired
document.
“Give it to me.”
“I must have the money first,” said the Frenchman, shrewdly.
“Take it,” said Dawkins contemptuously. “Do you judge me by yourself?”
He tore the note which he received into small pieces, and left Duval
without another word.
Sheltered by the darkness, Mr. Danforth, who had tracked the steps of
Dawkins, had been an unseen witness of this whole transaction.
XXXII.
RIGHT TRIUMPHANT.
George Dawkins resumed his duties the next morning as usual.
Notwithstanding the crime he had committed to screen himself from the
consequences of a lighter fault, he felt immeasurably relieved at the
thought that he had shaken himself free from the clutches of Duval. His
satisfaction was heightened by the disgrace and summary dismissal of
Paul, whom he had never liked. He decided to ask the place for a cousin
of his own, whose society would be more agreeable to him than that of
his late associate.
“Good-morning, sir,” he said, as Mr. Danforth entered.
“Good-morning,” returned his employer, coldly.
“Have you selected any one in Prescott's place, yet, sir?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have a cousin, Malcolm Harcourt, who would be glad to take
it.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Danforth, whose manner somewhat puzzled Dawkins.
“I should enjoy having him with me,” continued Dawkins.
“Did you like Prescott?”
“No, sir,” said Dawkins, promptly, “I didn't want to say so before, but
now, since he's turned out so badly, I don't mind saying that I never
thought much of him.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Danforth, “I liked him from the first.
Perhaps we are wrong in thinking that he took the money.”
“I should think there could be no doubt of it,” said Dawkins, not liking
the sympathy and returning good feeling for Paul which his employer
manifested.
“I don't agree with you,” said Mr. Danforth, coldly. “I have decided to
reinstate Paul in his former place.”
“Then, if any more money is missing, you will know where it has gone,”
said Dawkins, hastily.
“I shall.”
“Then there is no chance for my cousin?”
“I am expecting to have a vacancy.”
Dawkins looked up in surprise.
“I shall require some one to fill YOUR place,” said Mr. Danforth,
significantly.
“Sir!” exclaimed Dawkins, in astonishment and dismay.
His employer bent a searching glance upon him as he asked, sternly,
“where did you obtain the money which you paid away last evening?”
“I--don't--understand--you, sir,” gasped Dawkins, who understood only
too well.
“You met a man at the door of a low tavern in--Street, last evening, to
whom you paid one hundred and fifty dollars, precisely the sum which I
lost yesterday.”
“Who has been slandering me, sir?” asked Dawkins, very pale.
“An eye-witness of the meeting, who heard the conversation between you.
If you want more satisfactory proof, here it is.”
Mr. Danforth took from his pocket-book the torn fragments of the note
which Dawkins had given to Duval.