“Arrest that man!” said the detective. “He lay in wait for the office boy, and on his return from the bank robbed him of a large sum of money which he had just drawn out.”
“Who are you?” demanded Ralston, trying to brazen it out.
“I am James Sharpleigh, a detective.”
Mullins listened in dismay, for Sharpleigh’s name was familiar to him as one of the cleverest detectives in the city.
“And who authorized you to meddle in a matter that did not concern you?”
The answer came from an unexpected quarter. Mr. Fairchild, valise in hand and dusty with travel, entered the office. He heard the question, and quickly comprehended the situation.
“It is nearly two weeks,” he said, “since I engaged Mr. Sharpleigh to watch what was going on in the office. Chester Rand telegraphed me that he had been discharged, and my suspicions were excited.”
“So it’s that boy!” muttered the bookkeeper, spitefully.
“I left all to the discretion of my friend Sharpleigh, who has justified my confidence. I shall have to ask him to throw light on the present situation.”
This the detective did in a few brief sentences.