Wolverton shook his head, satirically.
"And a very good reason you have, I make no doubt."
"Suppose I tell you my theory, Mr. Wolverton."
"I wish you would," and Wolverton leaned back in his chair and gazed defiantly at the boy he so much hated.
"My father paid you the interest, and took a receipt. He had it on his person when he met with his death. When he was lying outstretched in death"—here Bob's eyes moistened—"some one came up, and, bending over him, took the receipt from his pocket."
Mr. Wolverton's face grew pale as Bob proceeded.
"A very pretty romance!" he sneered, recovering himself after an instant.
"It is something more than romance," Bob proceeded slowly and gravely. "It is true; the man who was guilty of this mean theft from a man made helpless by death is known. He was seen at this contemptible work."
"It is a lie," cried Wolverton, hoarsely, his face the color of chalk.
"It is a solemn truth."