V.

On Saturday afternoon about three o'clock, the cashier of the Fourth

National Bank in the town of Clarksburg called Thomas Woodford as he

was passing on the street, and requested him to come at once into the

directors' room. Woodford saw by the man's face that there was something

serious the matter and he hurried after him to the door of the private

office. As he entered, Mr. Izzard arose and crossed the room to him. The

old man held a check in his hand and was evidently laboring under great

excitement.

"Woodford," he cried, thrusting the check up into the cattle-shipper's

face, "this thing is not worth a damn! There is no money here to pay

it."

"No money to pay it!" echoed Woodford. "You must be crazy. We put the

money in here Monday. There's ten thousand dollars here to pay it."

"Well," said the old man, trembling with anger, "there is none here now.

You gave me this check Tuesday on my cattle which you and Harris bought,

and you told me there was money here to meet it. I thought you were

all right, of course, and I did not come to town until to-day. Now the

cashier says there is not a cursèd cent here to the credit of you and

Harris."

The blood faded out of the cattle-shipper's face, leaving him as white

as a sheet. He turned slowly to the cashier: "What became of that

money?" he gasped.

"Why," the officer replied, "it was drawn out on the check of yourself

and Harris. Did n't you know about it? The check was properly endorsed."

"Show me the check," said Thomas Woodford, striving hard to control the

trembling of his voice. "There must be some mistake."

The cashier went to his desk and returned with a check, which he spread

out on the table before the cattle-shipper. The man seized it and

carried it to the light, where he scrutinized it closely. It was in

proper form and drawn in the firm name of "Woodford & Harris," directing

the Fourth National Bank to pay to William Harris ten thousand dollars.

It was properly endorsed by William Harris and bore the stamp of the New

York Clearing House.

"When was this check cashed?" asked Woodford.

"It was sent in yesterday," answered the cashier. "Is there anything

wrong with it?"

For a time Woodford did not speak. He stood with his back to the two men

and was evidently attempting to arrive at some solution of the matter.

Presently he turned and faced the angry land-owner.

"There has been a mistake here, Mr. Izzard," he said, speaking slowly

and calmly. "Suppose I give you my note for the money; the bank here

will discount it, and you will not be put to any inconvenience."

To this the old gentleman readily assented. "All I want," he assured the

shipper, "is to be safe. Your note, Woodford, is good for ten times the

sum."

Thomas Woodford turned to the desk and drew a negotiable note for the

amount of the check. This he gave to Mr. Izzard, and then hurried to

the telegraph office, where he wired Harris asking for an immediate

explanation of the mysterious transaction.

He was a man accustomed to keep his own counsels, and he was not yet

ready to abandon them. He gave directions where the answer was to be

sent, then he went to the hotel, locked himself in his room, and began

to pace the floor, striving to solve the enigma of this queer proceeding

on the part of William Harris.

The transaction had an ugly appearance. The money had been placed in the

bank by the two men for the express purpose of meeting this check, which

he had given to Izzard as a part payment on his stock. Harris knew this

perfectly, and had suggested it. Now, how should it happen that he had

drawn the money in his own name almost immediately upon his arrival in

New York?

Could it be that Harris had concluded to steal the money? This the

cattle-shipper refused to believe. He had known Harris for years, and

knew that he was considered honest, as the world goes. Besides, Harris

would not dare to make such a bold move for the purpose of robbery.

His name was on the back of the check; there was no apparent attempt to

conceal it. No, there could be but one explanation, considered Woodford:

Harris had found the market rising and a great opportunity to make a

vast sum of money; consequently he had bought more stock and had been

compelled to use this money for the purpose of payment. There could be

no other explanation, so the cattle-shipper convinced himself.

Thomas Woodford was not a man of wavering decisions. When his conclusion

was once formed, that was the end of it. He went over to the wash-stand,

bathed his face, and turned to leave the room. As he did so, some one

rapped on the door; when he opened it, a messenger boy handed him a

telegram. He took the message, closed the door, and went over to the

window. For a moment the dread of what the little yellow envelope might

possibly contain, made the big rough cattle-shipper tremble. Then he

dismissed the premonition as an unreasonable fear, and with calm finger

opened the message. The telegram was from New York, and contained

these few words: "Have been robbed. Everything is lost," and was signed

"William Harris."

Thomas Woodford staggered as if some one had dealt him a terrible blow

in the face. The paper fell from his fingers and fluttered down on the

floor. The room appeared to swim round him; his heart thumped violently

for a moment, and then seemed to die down in his breast and cease its

beating. He sank down in his chair and fell forward on the table,

his big body limp under the shock of this awful calamity. It was all

perfectly plain to him now. The entire transaction from the beginning to

the end had been a deep-laid, cunning plan to rob him. The checking out

of the ten thousand dollars was but a small part of it Harris had sold

the cattle, and, seeking to keep the money, had simply said that he had

been robbed. The story about the probable dissolution of the exporters'

combine had been all a lie. He had been the dupe--the easy, willing

dupe, of a cunning villain.

William Harris had come to West Virginia with the deliberate intention

of inveigling him into this very trap. He had left New York with the

entire scheme well planned. He had stopped at Bridgeport and told him

the plausible story about what would happen to the combine, in order to

arouse his interest and draw him into the plot and to account for his

own presence in the cattle region. It was a shrewdly constructed tale,

which, under the circumstances, the most cautious man in the business

would have believed.

The man winced as he recalled how cunningly Harris had forced him to do

the very things he desired done, without appearing to even suggest them.

There was the deposit of the fund in the partnership name,--that seemed

all reasonable enough. It had not occurred to him that this money would

then be subject to Harris's check as well as his own. Then, too, it was

reasonable that he should go out and buy the cattle, and Harris ship

them,--Harris was a commission-merchant by trade, and this division of

the work was natural. Such a robbery had not occurred before in all the

history of this business, and how fatally well all the circumstances and

the customs of the trade fitted into the plan of this daring rascal!

Then, like a benumbing ache, came the gradual appreciation of the

magnitude of this loss. The cattle were worth twenty thousand dollars.

He had agreed to pay Izzard that sum for the drove, and then there was

the five thousand of his own money. Twenty-five thousand dollars in all.

It was no small sum for the wealthiest to lose, and to this man in his

despair it loomed large indeed.

Financial ruin is an evil-featured demon at best. The grasp of his hand

is blighting; the leer of his sunken face, maddening. It requires strong

will to face the monster when one knows that he is coming, even after

his shadow has been flitting across one's path for years. When he leaps

down suddenly from the dark upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting

passer-by, that one must be strong indeed if all that he possesses of

virtue and honesty and good motive be not driven out from him.

The old clock on the court-house struck five, its battered iron tongue

crying out from above the place where men were accustomed to resort for

Justice.

The sound startled Woodford and reminded him of something. He arose and

went to the window and stood looking at the gaunt old building.

Yes, there was the Law. He had almost forgotten that, and the Law would

not tolerate wrong. It hated the evil-doer, and hunted him down even to

the death, and punished him. Men were often weak and half blind, but the

Law was strong always, and its eyes were far-sighted. The world was not

so large that the rogue could hide from it. In its strength it would

seek him out and hold him responsible for the evil he had done. It stood

ever in its majesty between the knave and those upon whom he sought to

prey; its shadow, heavy with warning, lay always before the faces of

vicious men.

In his bitterness, Woodford thanked Heaven that this was true. From the

iron hand of the Law; William Harris should have vengeance visited upon

him to the very rim of the measure.