“Who has it, then?” Clay demanded, in a moment.
“I don’t know!” Alex replied, drearily, and then he told the whole miserable story—of the sand in the belt, of the papers hidden with the sand, of the concealment in the levee, of the removal, and finally of the loss.
Clay drew a long breath when the boy had concluded.
“I don’t expect you to believe it,” Alex ventured. “I wouldn’t believe a yarn like that if told me by a preacher.”
“If I told you, you would believe it, wouldn’t you?” asked Clay.
“Yes,” answered Alex, “I would!”
“Then I believe you!” Clay shouted, loyally, taking the boy’s hand.
“And I, too, believe you!” Case cut in. “It is queer, though!”
Alex tried hard to tell the boys how much he appreciated their loyalty, but his lips were quivering, his throat was too dry for speech, and there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes, so he gave over the attempt and sat looking at them in a way which told the story much better than any words could have done. Half his burden had dropped away, for they trusted him. Clay was first to speak.
“Suppose we spot the thief by the process of elimination,” he said.