CHAPTER XV.
A PLAIN TRUTH FROM MR. WATKINS.
Duncan Forbes roused himself to hear his second visitor's errand. He knew that it must be something important, yet he felt bored and disinterested.
Business matters were far from his thoughts to-day, yet for forty years they had consumed his entire attention.
Mr. Watkins seemed to be struggling for words—he looked pained and embarrassed. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other, and his thin face reddened and paled alternately.
For the first time in his life Duncan Forbes looked upon his assistant as another man's son—the loved and loving child of another father. It was a queer sensation; he could not get used to it; then came a memory of Jack, and his emotion conquered for the moment.
"You are excited, Watkins; sit down," he said huskily. "Something else has gone wrong at the store, I suppose. Well, let it go; it can wait until to-morrow."
"No, sir, it can't wait!" blurted out Mr. Watkins. "If it could I should not have come, knowing as I did of your dreadful sorrow!"
Again the thrill of surprise shook the man's every fibre. Another of his victims had remembered that it was his day of grief, and the very tones spoke of sympathy for his affliction.
"Well, then, what is it?" He spoke with some of his old sternness. "Speak out, Watkins; you know my habits. I always expect promptness in these errands."
"But this is purely personal, sir!" answered Mr. Watkins, sadly. "I have come to see you about that five hundred dollars that was taken from your desk last Monday morning."
"What of it?" asked Mr. Forbes with much of his old interest returning. He had been too long a slave to money to loose the bondage immediately.
Mr. Watkins was trembling now so that he could hardly speak. In his weak condition of health the recent deluge of trouble was telling upon him.
"She took it, I suppose, that girl that I employed that morning," said Mr. Forbes, trying to hurry matters. "Has anything been done? I told Hardy to look after it."
He picked up Faith's letter again and glanced at it absently. When he saw the name he dropped it as if it had stung him.
A great wave of color purpled his heavy face, and instantly he was the same old tyrant, raging furiously at the creatures whom fate had made his victims.
"See here, Watkins! Here's her letter! Can you believe such deceit! She not only cursed me that morning with her religious cant, but she stole my money as well; now she mocks my sorrow with a letter like that—she is 'sorry' for me! Do you hear, Watkins? She is 'sorry!'"
The great veins were standing out like cords upon his forehead, and he began pacing the floor in a perfect frenzy of anger.
"Tell Hardy to arrest her and have her locked up at once! I'll make an example of her before the whole store! The idea of her daring to write me a letter!"
"But, Mr. Forbes, please listen!" cried Mr. Watkins at last. This injustice to Faith had brought him to his senses. "It was not Miss Marvin who stole the money! She is a good girl, sir, the best I ever knew, and she is sorry for you, sir; if she wasn't she would not say so!"
"But the money!" roared Mr. Forbes. "Who took the money? If it wasn't the girl, why didn't you say so?"
"I couldn't, sir, at first, but I will say it now; but for pity's sake be merciful, sir. The thief was my own poor brother!"
"What! the boy who tends door?" asked Mr. Forbes in great astonishment.
"Yes, sir; poor Sam took it! He stole it for our mother!"
Mr. Forbes stared at him some time before he spoke again.
"And the girl," he asked finally. "Has Hardy been following her?"
"He has indeed," said Mr. Watkins quickly, "but I dare not report his actions; I have no proofs to offer. Hardy would doubtless deny all that she could say of him, for a girl is helpless in the hands of a villain like Hardy."
"I have found him a good detective," said Mr. Forbes, slowly, "but if you knew who took the money why didn't you tell him?"
"How could I, sir?"
Mr. Watkins had begun to tremble again.
"The knowledge of his sin is already killing my mother; if it becomes public she will die. I was waiting for you to come back to business."
"Well, the boy must be punished!" said Mr, Forbes decidedly. "I cannot be accountable for what may follow."
"Do you mean that you will arrest my brother?" cried Mr. Watkins, "when you know that by doing so you will blast his character forever and drive a poor woman to her grave who has never wronged you?"
"The boy should have thought of that," answered Mr. Forbes, grimly. "I deal with my employees, not with their futures or their mothers."
"But if I return the money! See, I have a part of it here!"
Mr. Watkins almost cried with agony as he held out two hundred dollars.
Mr. Forbes took the money and counted it carefully.
"Let's see, Watkins, your salary is twelve dollars a week," he said slowly. "If I deduct five dollars a week to cover the balance of this, it will be just sixty weeks before I could get my money."
"If I could only find the rest," said Mr. Watkins, groaning; "but Sam says he lost it, and I think he tells the truth. If he hadn't lost it he would have given it all to mother."
Mr. Forbes was drumming lightly on a table by his side. It was evident that two emotions were struggling within him.
"Here is the evening paper, sir," said a maid at the door.
Mr. Watkins moved automatically and handed it to his employer.
"Hey! What is this! A death at our store yesterday, Watkins?"
Mr. Forbes had caught sight of a headline half across the paper.
Mr. Watkins bowed; he could not speak. His employer opened the paper and scanned it hastily.
"Ah! That's right! That's right! Gibson is a clever man! He makes the thing sound right before the public! Denton, Day & Co. will pay for Miss Jennings' funeral, yet they say there is no heart, soul nor conscience in a big corporation!"
He almost laughed as he ran his eye down the columns of the paper, and for a moment his manner became almost confidential.
"That's one of the tricks of our trade, Watkins," he said with a chuckle. "We cater to the weaknesses and foibles of the public, and there's nothing that appeals to them like a report of generosity. Of course, they never stop to think that the poor creatures are much better off dead than alive, and that they really have no hold on the sympathies of others. It's a fad among rich people to weep over the poor! Some of them will probably send flowers to the funeral of that woman, and think themselves angels of light for doing it! I tell you, religion is a trade mark in all lines of business, and I've decided in the last few days that that's about all it's good for!"
He laid the paper down with a smile of satisfaction, then turned toward Mr. Watkins to resume the former conversation.
But a look at the young man's face checked the words upon his lips. The scorn in those hollow eyes burned even through his callous nature.
For a moment he saw himself much as his assistant saw him, a man whose greed of gold never reached its limit, even though lives were sacrificed in his service.
He could not speak although he tried to repeatedly, for the glare of his assistant's eye transfixed him like a magnet.
With one hand upon the door, Mr. Watkins paused to answer:
"The papers don't know it all, Mr. Forbes," he whispered shrilly; "or, if they do, they don't dare to tell what they know. If they did they would add that it was the least you could do—to pay for her funeral after your firm has killed her!"