owed.

"He was saucy."

Burnet bowed again.

"I kicked him out for his impudence."

Burnet bowed a third time.

"My key is gone."

Burnet waited.

"But the safe is locked."

Burnet glanced at the safe.

"Who has been in my office?"

"A boy, sir."

"Who?"

"I don't know, sir; he asked for you. I sent him to your office."

"That was the barber's boy."

Burnet bowed: he never wasted words; never left his desk to see a row
or a military company, and would not have done so if an earthquake had
torn up the pavement of State Street, so long as the banking-house of
Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. was undisturbed.

"Who else?" asked the banker.

"A man, sir."

"Who?"

"I don't know; he entered by your private door; the boy and the man
went out together."

"Send for the safe people."

Burnet bowed, and retired. In half an hour two men from the safe
manufactory appeared. They opened the iron door, and the banker turned
pale when he found that his valuable papers had been abstracted. The
three hundred and fifty dollars which "Mr. Hart" had taken was of no
consequence, compared with the documents that were missing; for they
were his private papers, on which other eyes than his own must not
look.

The safe men fitted a new key, altering the wards of the lock, so that
the old one would not open the door. What remained of the papers were
secured; but those that were gone were of more importance than those
that were left. Mr. Checkynshaw groaned in spirit. The threats of Mr.
Fitzherbert Wittleworth seemed to have some weight now, and that young
gentleman suddenly became of more consequence than he had ever been
before. Fitz could not have stolen these papers himself, but he might
have been a party to the act.

"Burnet!" called the banker.

The old clerk came again. Nothing ever excited or disturbed him, and
that was what made him so reliable as a financial clerk and cashier. He
never made any mistakes, never overpaid any one, and his cash always
"balanced."

"What shall I do? My private papers have been stolen!" said the banker,
nervously. "Who was the man that came out of the office?"

"I don't know, sir."

"What was he like?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.

"Well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish."

"And the boy?"

"Fourteen or fifteen--looked well."

"Send for Andre Maggimore, the barber."

Burnet bowed and retired. Charles was sent to the saloon of Cutts &
Stropmore; but it was four o'clock,