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