On the farther side all was darkness, however, and Jack returned to the window. As he approached it something on the floor beneath caught his eye. It was a lead-pencil. He picked it up, and with a cry of triumph discovered stamped upon it the initials and miniature crest of the express company. And, more, a peculiar long-pointed sharpening promised the possibility of fixing its actual owner.
Filled with elation, and confident that it was now only a matter of time when he should clear himself, Jack hastened up-stairs, determined to pursue his investigation next door, where he knew several of the younger clerks.
“Hello, Danny,” he said, entering the express office, and addressing a sandy-haired boy of his own age. “Say, who in here sharpens pencils like this?”
“Hello! That? Oh, I’d know that whittle a mile off. We call ’em daggers—Smith’s daggers. Where did you get it?”
“Smith! Who wants Smith?”
Jack turned with a start. It was the clerk himself.
Instantly Jack extended the pencil. “Is this yours, Mr. Smith?” he asked, and held his breath.
“Yes, it is. Where did you find—” Suddenly the clerk turned upon Jack with a look of terror in his face. But in a moment he had recovered himself, and abruptly snatching the pencil from Jack’s hand, proceeded to his desk.
Jack was jubilant. Nothing could have been more convincing of the clerk’s guilt. Following this feeling, however, came one of pity for the unfortunate man; and after a silent debate with himself, Jack followed him.
Placing a hand on the clerk’s shoulder, he said in a low voice: