“Last evening I took a walk with Grayson,” said the novelist. “I noticed a new and handsome ring upon his finger. I asked him where it came from. He said, ‘It was given me by a friend,’ but he spoke hesitatingly. ‘It must have cost as much as ten dollars,’ I said. ‘Fifteen!’ he answered. ‘That is, I saw a ring like it in a shop window for fifteen dollars.’
“Depend upon it, Ben, that ring was bought with your money, and George Grayson opened your trunk and stole your bank book.”
“I don’t like to think so,” said Ben, troubled.
“I feel sure of it.”
“What would you advise me to do?”
“Go to the bank, give notice of your loss, and find out whether any money has been drawn from the bank on your account.”
This seemed to be sensible advice, and Ben acted upon it the next morning. Mr. Snodgrass accompanied him to the banking house at the junction of Broadway and Sixth Avenue at Thirty-second Street.
Ben went up to one of the windows—the one where the paying teller pays over the money—and gave notice of the loss of his book—giving the number.
“When did you see the book last?” asked the official.
“Wednesday.”