ornett, rising,
made himself as small as he could in the corner beside the grate.
Bommaney, in his pitiful broken boots, went shuffling up and down the
room.

'What became of the money, sir?' the clerk asked with a shaky voice.

He was ready to run for his life, and he was more than half afraid that
the old man was mad--his eyes blazed so, and his voice and gestures were
so tempestuous.

'It was lost,' said Bommaney. 'I lost it, Heaven knows how. I've thought
a thousand times,' he said, through his clenched teeth, 'that that young
Barter must have had it.'

'Young Barter, sir?' said Hornett.

Then Bommaney told all he knew of the story of his own loss, and at a
certain point in the narrative Hornett started and made a step forward.
He remembered the night well enough--he had reason to remember it. An
appointment for the theatre that evening had led him to call upon a
brother clerk in Gable Inn, and he had seen young Mr. Barter leaving his
chambers in what had struck him at the time as being an odd and stealthy
fashion. He had remarked it for the moment, and had forgotten it
afterwards, as men forget a thousand things of the sort which have
no interest personal to themselves. But now he saw young Mr. Barter's
figure with a singular distinctness, and the face turned round in the
gaslight was again as visible as it had been at the moment. He thought
he read a meaning in it now. But for this slight confirmation of
his employer's story he would probably have disbelieved it, but the
accidental character of the clue weighed with him, an apparent touch of
romance in it gave it a value beyond its merits.

'Could you tell me, sir,' he asked, 'exactly what time it was when you
left Mr. Barter's office?'

'No,' said Bommaney, suddenly weary after his outburst of
self-exculpation, 'I don't know. It was after banking hours. It was
dark; he had to light the gas. What if I could? What would that have to
do with it?'

'Well, you see, sir,' Hornett answered, 'I'm not likely to forget that
evening. Of all the evenings of my life, sir, I made a call at Gable Inn
myself, sir, at Number One. If young Mr. Barter had found the notes
he wouldn't care to face you again, and he mightn't have answered your
knock at the door, though he might have heard it.'

'Any fool could tell me that,' said Bommaney roughly. 'What do you
mean?'

'I've noticed, sir,' said Hornett, with marked humility, as if he
apologised for having said anything, '