“From Bart!” he breathed. “Wonder what this will tell me.”
His eyes ran over the written lines hurriedly, and this is what he read:
“Frank: It’s no use—I quit! I suppose you will say it is a mean trick for me to leave you this way, but I don’t care if you do! It’s my nature cropping out. I think the devil is in me. I have taken all the money I need, and it will be useless for you to attempt to follow me up. You may as well let me go this time. I take the money in place of my salary, which you have not yet paid me. Hodge.”
Frank stood there, staring at the paper—staring, staring. The words ran together and danced before him. Something was tugging at his heart.
“Poor Hodge!” he murmured. “He cannot conquer himself.”
Then he crushed the paper and threw it on the floor.
“I’ll wager he didn’t take enough money to keep him a week!” came hoarsely from Frank’s lips. “He should have taken twenty-five dollars, at least, and it’s likely he hasn’t taken more than ten.”
He picked up his grip and quickly emptied it upon the bed. Then he soon removed the false bottom and looked into it.
Frank stood there, as if turned to stone. On his face was a look of mingled astonishment and pain.
“Gone!” he finally said, his voice cold, hard and metallic. “Every dollar gone—eight hundred and sixty dollars in all!”