d him, when old Mr. Bowdoin reached the bank. There was a silence
when he entered, and a sense of past discussion in the air. James
Bowdoin rose.

"Keep the chair, James, keep the chair. I have a little business with
the board."

"They were discussing, sir," replied James, "the necessity of
completing our work for the new organization. Is McMurtagh yet well
enough to work?"

"No," said the father.

"What is your objection to proceeding without him?" asked Mr. Pinckney
rather shortly.

"None whatever," coolly answered Mr. Bowdoin.

"None whatever? Why, you said you would not proceed while Mr.
McMurtagh was ill."

"McMurtagh will never come back to the bank," said old Mr. Bowdoin
gravely.

"Dear me, I hope he is not dead?"

"No, but he will retire; on a pension, of course. Then his
granddaughter has quite a little fortune."

"His granddaughter--a fortune?"

"Certainly--Miss Sarah--McMurtagh," gasped Mr. Bowdoin. He could not
say "St. Clair," and so her name was changed. "Something over twenty
thousand dollars. I have come for it now."

The other directors looked at old Mr. Bowdoin for visual evidence of a
failing mind.

"It's in the safe there, in a box. Mr. Stanchion, please get down the
old tin box marked 'James Bowdoin's Sons;' there are the papers. The
child's other grandfather, one Romolo Soto, gave it me himself, in
1829. I myself had it put in this bank the next day. Here is the
receipt: 'James Bowdoin's Sons, one chest said to contain Spanish
gold. Amount not specified.' I'll take it, if you please."

"The amount must be specified somewhere."

"The amount was duly entered on the books of James Bowdoin's Sons, Tom
Pinckney; and their books are no business of yours, unless you doubt
our credit. Would you like a written statement?" and Mr. Bowdoin
puffed himself up and glared at his old friend.

"Here is the chest, sir," said Mr. Stanchion suavely. "Have you the
key?"

"No, sir; Mr. McMurtagh has the key," and Mr. Bowdoin stalked from the
office.

XV.

Then old Mr. Bowdoin, with the box under his arm, hurried down to
Salem Street. Jamie still lay there, unconscious of earthly things.
For many weeks, his spirit, like a tired bird, had hovered between
this world and the next, uncertain where to alight.

For many weeks he had been, as we call it, out of his head. Harley had
had time to go to New Orleans and return, Mercedes and Soto to die,
and all these meetings about less importan