THE PLOT SUCCEEDS.
The third day was rainy, and Gilbert wore a thin overcoat, which, on
arriving at the office, he took off and hung up. At ten o’clock the rain
ceased, and he did not feel the need of wearing it when sent out on
errands.
About eleven o’clock John sauntered into the office.
“You may go round to the post-office, Gilbert,” said the book-keeper.
“Very well, sir.”
Gilbert put on his coat and went out.
“Isn’t it about time, cousin Simon?” asked John, significantly.
“Yes,” said Moore.
“How shall we manage?”
The book-keeper took from his pocket a ten-dollar bill, and handed it to
John.
“That is Gilbert’s coat,” he said. “Put this bill into one of the
pockets.”
John obeyed.
“I guess that will fix him,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction.
“I’ll manage the rest,” said the book-keeper. “Stay round here till
Gilbert gets back, and we’ll bring matters to a crisis.”
Just as John was placing the bill in Gilbert’s coat-pocket, the little
boot-black mentioned at the close of the last chapter thrust his head
into the doorway.
“Shine yer boots?” he asked.
“Clear out, you vagabond!” said the book-keeper, irritably.
Tom, for that was his name, looked inquisitively about him and retired.
He saw that there was no chance for business. He recognized John as the
one who had kicked him the day before.
“I wonder what he was putting into the coat,” he thought; but dismissed
the thought as not concerning him till afterwards.
“Did he notice what I was doing?” thought John, with momentary
uneasiness. “But, of course, he wouldn’t understand,” he felt, with
quick relief.
A few minutes elapsed, and Gilbert returned, bringing home the mail.
“All right!” said Moore, “wait a minute, and I shall want to send you
out again.”
“Oh, by the way, Gilbert,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “have you
seen anything of a ten-dollar bill?—I laid one on the desk an hour ago,
and now it has disappeared.”
“I haven’t seen it, sir.”
“Won’t you look on the floor? It may have dropped.”
Gilbert searched, but of course unsuccessfully.
“That is strange,” said the book-keeper. “I remember distinctly placing
the bill on the desk; have you seen it, John?”
“No, cousin Simon.”
“It is very mysterious,” mused the book-keeper.
“I hope you don’t suspect me of taking it, cousin Simon,” said John, who
had been instructed what to say.
“Of course not.”
John began to turn his pockets inside out.
“I want you to search me,” he said; “if you don’t, you may think I took
it, after all.”
“I never thought of such a thing, John,” said Simon Moore.
“I am sure Gilbert and I would prefer to be searched,” persisted John,
looking towards Gilbert as he spoke.
Gilbert colored, for it was not agreeable to him to fall under
suspicion, but he answered quietly, “I am quite ready to be searched.”
“I don’t think it at all necessary,” said Simon Moore; “but if you boys
insist upon it, I will do it. It is certainly strange that the bill
should have disappeared, and left no trace behind. Gilbert, will you
search John, and then he shall search you.”
“If you desire it, Mr. Moore,” said Gilbert; “but I don’t believe John
took the bill, and I am sure I didn’t.”
Gilbert proceeded to search John, the latter assisting him. A
jack-knife, a couple of keys, a handkerchief, and twenty-five cents in
money were all that he found.
“I’m not very rich,” said John, smiling. “I don’t mind saying that the
ten dollars would be very acceptable, but I haven’t got it; are you
satisfied?”
“Yes,” said Gilbert, “you haven’t got it, and I didn’t think you had;
you may search me now.”
John conducted the search carelessly, for he knew, beforehand, what the
result would be.
“I don’t find it,” he said. “Where can the bill be? Are you sure you
didn’t put it back into your own pocket, cousin Simon?”
“Quite sure. By the way, Gilbert, didn’t you wear an overcoat?”
“Yes, sir; there it is, hanging up.”
“John, you had better examine that also, that the search may be
thorough.”
“Certainly,” said Gilbert, little dreaming of what was in store for him.
John plunged his hand into one pocket and found nothing; then into the
other, and drew out the ten-dollar bill.
“What’s this?” he asked, pretending to be surprised.
“Let me see it,” said Gilbert, overcome with surprise.
“Let _me_ see it,” said Simon Moore, sharply.
“It’s a ten-dollar bill,” said John, looking at it more closely.
“It’s the note I missed,” said the book-keeper, taking it into his
hands. “What have you to say to this, Greyson?” he demanded, sternly.
“I have this to say,” said Gilbert, a little pale, as was natural, “that
I don’t know anything about that bill, or how it came in my
coat-pocket.”
“I suppose not,” sneered the book-keeper.
“I am willing to swear to it,” said Gilbert, recovering his firmness.
“A boy that steals money cannot expect to be believed, even upon oath,”
said the book-keeper.
“Do you believe I took that money, John?” asked Gilbert.
“You mustn’t ask me,” said John. “I didn’t think you’d do such a thing,
Gilbert, but it looks mighty suspicious.”
“I never stole a penny in my life,” said Gilbert, hotly.
“Do you claim this money as yours?” asked the book-keeper.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then how came it in your pocket? It couldn’t have got there without
hands.”
A light dawned upon Gilbert’s mind; a suspicion of the truth flashed
upon him.
“It is true,” he said, significantly. “Somebody must have put it into my
pocket.”
“And that somebody was yourself,” said Moore, sharply.
“Of course it was,” chimed in John.
Gilbert looked slowly from one to the other. There was something in
their faces that revealed all to him.
“I think I understand,” he said. “You two have formed a conspiracy to
ruin me. I see it now.”
“If you speak in that way again,” said Moore, in a rage, “I will kick
you out of the office.”
“I should like to have you refer the matter to Mr. Sands,” said Gilbert,
betraying no alarm. “He will do me justice.”
“I ought to refer the matter to the nearest policeman,” said the
book-keeper, in a menacing tone.
“Do so, if you like,” said Gilbert, though he shrank with natural
reluctance from being arrested, innocent as he knew himself to be. “I am
not without powerful friends, as you will find.”
“Don’t have him arrested, cousin Simon,” said John, with apparent
compassion. “He has given up the money. Discharge him, and let him go.”
This was what Simon Moore had already determined to do. He knew very
well that in any legal investigation John and he would incur suspicion,
and for prudential reasons he preferred not to court any such publicity.
“I ought to arrest you,” he said, turning to Gilbert; “but I will have
pity on your youth, hoping that this will be your last offence. I shall,
of course, discharge you, since I should not be justified in retaining
you under the circumstances. I will report to Mr. Sands why I was
compelled to dispense with your services. I will pay you your wages up
to to-day, and you need not come here again.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that, Mr. Moore,” said Gilbert, with
dignity. “I shall report to Mr. Sands when he returns, and abide by his
judgment.”
“You had better not,” said Moore. “I advise you for your own good. Mr.
Sands will still have it in his power to arrest you; your best course
will be to leave the city, and go to some place where you are not
known.”
“I shall remain in the city, and can be found, if wanted,” said Gilbert,
boldly. “The day will come, Mr. Moore, when my innocence will be known
by all.”
Moore shrugged his shoulders.
“I have heard such things before,” he said. “You can go. John, I will
employ you, temporarily, in Gilbert’s place.”
“I understand your object now, Mr. Moore,” said Gilbert, looking
significantly at John.
“Begone, or I will yet have you arrested,” said the book-keeper,
angrily.
Gilbert put on his coat and hat, and walked out of the office.