Bartlett came in gloomily. Without a cent among them they could not continue the trip. They would have to make for the nearest telegraph station and wire for help, and Batchelor, his whereabouts known to his brokers, would probably receive an urgent call to return at once.
"Robbed?" asked the general.
"They left me my name," said Bartlett grimly. "Who steals your purse steals trash, I suppose. We have that comfort."
"Not my purse," said the Watermelon. "Mine had money in it."
"My watch," said the general, "was a family heirloom. My great grandfather carried it."
"I wonder if the girls lost anything," said Bartlett.
"We will have to go to the nearest telegraph station and telegraph for money," declared the general.
"I suppose so," growled Bartlett, and trailed from the room to finish dressing.
They found the girls in the dining-room, unaware of what had befallen them. They had slept late and the clock on the mantel registered half-past nine as the three men filed into the room. The general was calm, pompous, austere, but Henrietta had not lived with him for five and thirty years without having acquired the ability to read his every mood.
"Father," she asked, "what's the matter? Have your sins found you out?"