o brass locks. An ancient volume, it
appeared, its strong binding faded and stained. Old Gadley sat down
with it at the dead man's own desk, and snuffing the two shaded candles,
unlocked and opened it. I was standing opposite, so that the book to me
was upside down, but the date on the first page, "1841," caught my eye,
as also the small neat writing now brown with age.

"So neat, so orderly he always was," murmured old Gadley again,
smoothing the page affectionately with his hand, and I waited for his
dictation.

But no glib flow of figures fell from him. His eyebrows suddenly
contracted, his body stiffened itself. Then for the next quarter of an
hour nothing sounded in the quiet room but his turning of the creakling
pages. Once or twice he glanced round swiftly over his shoulder, as
though haunted by the idea of some one behind him; then back to the
neat, closely written folios, his little eyes, now exhibiting a comical
look of horror, starting out of his round red face. First slowly, then
quickly with trembling hands he turned the pages, till the continual
ratling of the leaves sounded like strange, mocking laughter through
the silent, empty room; almost one could imagine it coming from some
watching creature hidden in the shadows.

The end reached, he sat staring before him, his whole body quivering,
great beads of sweat upon his shiny bald head.

"Am I mad?" was all he could find to say. "Kelver, am I mad?"

He handed me the book. It was a cynically truthful record of fraud,
extending over thirty years. Every client, every friend, every relative
that had fallen into his net he had robbed: the fortunate ones of a
part, the majority of their all. Its very first entry debited him
with the proceeds of his own partner's estate. Its last ran--"Re
Kelver--various sales of stock." To his credit were his payments year
after year of imaginary interests on imaginary securities, the surplus
accounted for with simple brevity: "Transferred to own account." No
record could have been more clear, more frank. Beneath each transaction
was written its true history; the actual investments, sometimes
necessary, carefully distinguished from the false. In neat red ink would
occur here and there a note for his own guidance: "Eldest child comes of
age August, '73. Be prepared for trustees desiring production." Turning
to "August, '73," one found that genuine investment had been made, to
be sold again a few months later on. From beginni