he paused
abruptly.

"I confess I don't understand this at all!" declared Mr. Wheatcroft,
irascibly.

"I am afraid that I do understand it," Mr. Whittier said, with a glance
of compassion at the Major.

"There," Paul continued, handing his father a second azure square,
"there is a photograph taken here ten minutes after the first, at 3.20
yesterday afternoon. That shows the safe open and the young man
standing before it with the private letter-book in his hand. As his
head is bent over the pages of the book, the view of the face is not so
good. But there can be no doubt that it is the same man. You see that,
don't you, Mr. Wheatcroft?"

"I see that, of course," returned Mr. Wheatcroft, forcibly. "What I
don't see is why the Major here should confess if he isn't guilty!"

"I think I know the reason for that," said Mr. Whittier, gently.

"There haven't been two men at our books, have there?" asked Mr.
Wheatcroft--"the Major, and also the fellow who has been photographed?"

Mr. Whittier looked at the book-keeper for a moment.

"Major," he said, with compassion in his voice, "you won't tell me that
it was you who sold our secrets to our rivals? And you might confess it
again and again, I should never believe it. I know you better. I have
known you too long to believe any charge against your honesty, even if
you bring it yourself. The real culprit, the man who is photographed
here, is your son, isn't he? There is no use in your trying to conceal
the truth now, and there is no need to attempt it, because we shall be
lenient with him for your sake, Major."

There was a moment's silence, broken by Wheatcroft suddenly saying:

"The Major's son? Why, he's dead, isn't he? He was shot in a brawl
after a spree somewhere out West two or three years ago--at least,
that's what I understood at the time."

"It is what I wanted everybody to understand at the time," said the
book-keeper, breaking silence at last. "But it wasn't so. The boy was
shot, but he wasn't killed. I hoped that it would be a warning to him,
and he would make a fresh start. Friends of mine got him a place in
Mexico, but luck was against him--so he wrote me--and he lost that.
Then an old comrade of mine gave him another chance out in Denver, and
for a while he kept straight and did his work well. Then he broke down
once more and he was discharged. For six months I did not know what had
become of him. I've found out since that he was a tramp for weeks, and