“Hold your tongue. Get into that elevator. We’ll soon find out whether you did or not. I’m going to have you searched.”
The three passengers in the elevator eyed the boy askance.
“He’s stolen something,” whispered one of them to the other. “They’re taking him to the store detective’s office.”
Harry heard the whisper. “Oh, please——” he began. His voice died away in a half sob. The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. He was hustled roughly off it and down a narrow passage to a door which he had learned to know led to the room where the force of store detectives searched the persons they caught stealing Martin Brothers’ wares. A stern-faced man seated at a desk rose to meet them as they entered.
“Search this boy,” commanded Mr. Seymour. “Barton says he has stolen twenty dollars.”
Then the most humiliating moment of Harry Harding’s short life began. The search did not reveal the missing money, however. For half an hour the detective kept up a merciless grilling of the unfortunate boy. Harry’s brief desire to cry had vanished. With pale, set face, he repeated over and over again, “I didn’t take it. I gave it to Mr. Barton.”
“Send for Barton,” ordered the detective. Mr. Seymour left the room on his errand. The detective eyed the boy angrily. His patience was becoming exhausted.
“You’d better own up, youngster. If you don’t——”
The door was suddenly flung open and two persons fairly rushed into it. One of them was Miss Welch. Her face was white with rage. Her blue eyes shot fire. In her hand was clutched four five-dollar notes.