“Mr. Smith, I have found out about that cash-box of ours. Now look here, why not confess the wretched business before it is too late, and—”
The clerk spun about. “Cash-box! Business! What do you refer to?”
“Mr. Smith, it was you took our cash-box last night.”
The clerk was colorless, but he only faltered an instant. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded angrily. “I never heard of your cash-box. What do you mean by—”
“Well then, I’ll tell you just how you did it,” said Jack determinedly. “While you were in Mr. Black’s office yesterday afternoon he stepped out and left you alone for a moment. The cash-box was on the table. You immediately saw the opportunity (perhaps Hansen had done the same thing, and put you onto it?)—you saw the opportunity, and threw over the box a newspaper you had in your hand. As you had hoped, not seeing the box, Mr. Black forgot it, and left at six o’clock without returning it to the safe. You made sure of that by remaining about the outer office until he left. And then, after midnight you came down to the office here, forced an entrance into our cellar, and went up-stairs and secured the box.
“I’m sorry—but isn’t that so?”
The clerk laughed drily. “The great Mr. Sherlock Holmes, junior!” he remarked sarcastically. “Rubbish. Run away and don’t bother me with your silly detective theories,” and turned back to his desk.
Jack stood, baffled and surprised.
