ng as he wrote the supposed letter from
Hardyman in the third person, it mattered little what handwriting was
employed, seeing that no signature would be necessary. The letter was at
once composed, on the model which Sharon had already suggested to Moody,
and a respectable messenger (so far as outward appearances went) was
employed to take it to the bank. In half an hour the answer came back.
It added one more to the difficulties which beset the inquiry after the
lost money. No such sum as five hundred pounds had been paid, within the
dates mentioned, to the credit of Hardyman's account.

Old Sharon was not in the least discomposed by this fresh check. "Give
my love to the dear young lady," he said with his customary impudence;
"and tell her we are one degree nearer to finding the thief."

Moody looked at him, doubting whether he was in jest or in earnest.

"Must I squeeze a little more information into that thick head of
yours?" asked Sharon. With this question he produced a weekly newspaper,
and pointed to a paragraph which reported, among the items of sporting
news, Hardyman's recent visit to a sale of horses at a town in the north
of France. "We know he didn't pay the bank-note in to his account,"
Sharon remarked. "What else did he do with it? Took it to pay for the
horses that he bought in France! Do you see your way a little plainer
now? Very good. Let's try next if your money holds out. Somebody must
cross the Channel in search of the note. Which of us two is to sit in
the steam-boat with a white basin on his lap? Old Sharon, of course!" He
stopped to count the money still left, out of the sum deposited by Moody
to defray the cost of the inquiry. "All right!" he went on. "I've got
enough to pay my expenses there and back. Don't stir out of London till
you hear from me. I can't tell how soon I may not want you. If there's
any difficulty in tracing the note, your hand will have to go into your
pocket again. Can't you get the lawyer to join you? Lord! how I should
enjoy squandering _his_ money! It's a downright disgrace to me to have
only got one guinea out of him. I could tear my flesh off my bones when
I think of it."

The same night Old Sharon started for France, by way of Dover and
Calais.

Two days elapsed, and brought no news from Moody's agent. On the third
day, he received some information relating to Sharon--not from the man
himself, but in a letter from Isabel Miller.

"For once, dear Robert," she wr