It was a bitterly cold, clear night, a few weeks later. Runners squeaked and boot-heels crunched in the road. David had passed Green's house at seven o'clock, going to the store; he always went by there at that time, Saturdays, and passed again, returning home, at about eight.
When he reached the gate, on his return, Green was standing there, apparently waiting.
“Come into the house a minute, David,” he said; “I want to see you.”
He led him into the kitchen.
“My wife's gone over to Aunt Nathan's for the evening,” he said.
He shut the door, and locked it.
“There!” he said; “I can't stand it any longer;” and he laid upon a table at David's side a wallet. David took it up and opened it; it held a great roll of bills.
“What does this mean?” he said; “why—this is mine! You don't mean—”
“I mean I stole it,” said Green.
David sat down. “I wish you had put it in the fire,” he said, “and never told me.”