Mr Ranee turned and asked the draper to produce the note.
“Is that the note, Mr Gordon?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Fred, “there’s my name upon the back.”
Mr Ranee then fetched his private cash-book, and showed him that it was one of the notes received the day before; for there was the number, in company with that of all the other notes, duly entered.
Fred immediately pulled out his pocket-book from the breast of his coat, which he had not yet had time to change, though his custom was to wear an old coat in the office, and leave the other hanging upon a peg against the wall.
“I have here another of the notes you paid me, sir,” he said, passing it over to his employer, who took it, examined it, and then compared the number with one of those in his book. He then shook his head ominously.
“This is not one of the notes that I paid you, Mr Gordon; this is one of those missing from the safe. I am grieved, deeply grieved, Mr French, to find that your suspicions are so far verified; and therefore a search must be made.”
“Search! what? where?” exclaimed Fred, turning pale. “Not my home—my place—think, Mr Ranee—my wife—the shock—”
Fred stopped short, for just then he caught the eye of French, and, setting his teeth, he remained silent.
I went up to him and took his hand, but he did not speak, for I could see that he was trying to concentrate his thoughts upon the matter, and endeavouring to solve the mystery. We both felt that we knew the hand that was dealing the blow, but the question was how to parry the assault.