“I’m from Mr. Townsend’s book store,” was the boy’s reply.
“That’s it. I knew it was something about books,” said the doctor with an uneasy laugh. “Thank you for reminding me. I had forgotten. I must pay you that ten dollars.”
He drew out his pocketbook, and began fumbling with it, for his eyesight was clearly not of the best.
“Ah, I thought I had a ten-dollar bill somewhere in it,” he said, as he handed Tom an envelope. “I sealed it up in this, and meant to send it, but I forgot it. But there ought to be more money in my wallet. I left fifty dollars in it this morning, and now there are only fifteen. I wonder what has become of the rest?”
“Do you think I took it?” asked Mr. Sandow, almost savagely.
“Why—er—no—of course not,” answered the old doctor, looking over the tops of his spectacles. “I only thought——”
“You don’t know what you thought!” exclaimed the other quite fiercely. “First thing you know you’ll be accusing me or my wife of stealing money from you. ’Liza, come here!” he called.
His wife stood in the door.
“What is it, Barton?” she asked.
“The doctor has missed some money from his pocketbook, and he accuses us of taking it.”