"Who is he?" asked the senior partner.
"Wait a minute," Mr. Wheatcroft begged. "Don't be in a hurry and I'll tell you. Yesterday afternoon, I don't know what possessed me, but I felt drawn down-town for some reason. I wanted to see if anything was going on down here. I knew we had made that bid Saturday, and I wondered if anybody would try to get it on Sunday. So I came down about four o'clock, and I saw a man sneak out of the front door of this office. I followed him as swiftly as I could and as quietly, for I didn't want to give the alarm until I knew more. The man did not see me as he turned to go up the steps of the elevated railroad station. At the corner I saw his face."
"Did you recognize him?" asked Mr. Whittier.
"Yes," was the answer. "And he did not see me. There were tears rolling down his cheeks, perhaps that's the reason. This morning I called him in here, and he has finally confessed the whole thing."
"Who—who is it?" asked Mr. Whittier, dreading to look at the old book-keeper, who had been in the employ of the firm for thirty years and more.
"It is Major Van Zandt!" Mr. Wheatcroft declared.
There was a moment of silence; then the voice of Paul Whittier was heard, saying, "I think there is some mistake!"
"A mistake!" cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "What kind of a mistake?"
"A mistake as to the guilty man," responded Paul.
"Do you mean that the Major isn't guilty?" asked Mr. Wheatcroft.