“No.”
“Oh, that you took?” insinuated Ben, in his blunt, straightforward way.
“No, sir! Do you take me for a thief?” cried Harry indignantly. “I’ll tell you this much more: I was living with a man I didn’t like so very much. I made up my mind to cut out from him. I wanted first to find some papers of mine I believed he had in his possession. When he was away from home one night, I took a lighted candle and made a tour of investigation. I came across a pile of banknotes. A strip around them said ‘Five Hundred Dollars.’ I went on searching for what I was after, but didn’t find it. When I turned around to take up the candle, the drawer in which I had placed it was all ablaze. The banknotes were a heap of crisp cinders.”
“Well!” ejaculated Ben.
“I tell you I was scared,” confessed Harry. “He was a close-fisted, mysterious old fellow, and—well, I decided to get out. I left a note telling the circumstances of the accident, and said that I would work my finger nails off to earn that five hundred dollars and bring it back to him, some day. I’ve been doing it ever since.”
“That’s a remarkable story, Harry Ashley,” said Ben, in earnest admiration.
Harry pushed the bills over to Tom, restored the belt to its place, and, with the indifference of a millionaire, started for the trap door.
“I must tell the peddler’s wife about her husband’s delay,” he said. “Glad to oblige you, Tom. I’ll be back soon.”
Tom grasped the banknotes thoughtfully, and with an expression of gladness and relief on his face.
“What luck!” commented Ben.