"Do you know whose it is?"
"No, I don't," half stammering, but with an air of decision. Luckily, just at this time, the president stalked in.
"Here's a man who will tell you whose it is," said I; and holding it up to the president, I asked, "Whose is this bag?"
"Mine," said he; "but the gold that was taken with it was the —— Bank's," as he eyed Mr. ——, the broker, sternly; "and you are the man who took it."
"I protest," said the broker, "that I never saw that bag before;" but his manner showed guilt.
"Well," said I, "that's a question of evidence. Excuse me for a moment, and be calm;" and I stepped to the door, and nodded to the old clerk to come in. He came, and the broker's astonishment was evidently great.
"Did you ever see that before? and where did you first see it?" I asked of the clerk.
"In Mr. ——'s" (the broker's) "hands."
"Where did he take it from, and what did he do with it?"
The young man told his simple story; and I told him we would relieve him, and away he went, still ignorant of the theft, but probably wondering what it all meant.