Mr. Smith pressed his hand to his head in painful reflection.
“How much money was there in it, Socrates?” asked his wife.
“Between forty and fifty dollars!” groaned Mr. Smith. “If I don’t find it, Sophronia, I am a ruined man!”
This was, of course, an exaggeration, but it showed the poignancy of the loser’s regret.
“Can’t you think where you left it?”
Suddenly Mr. Smith’s face lighted up.
“I remember where I left it, now,” he said; “I was up in the chamber an hour since, and, while changing my coat, took out my wallet, and laid it on the bureau. I’ll go right up and look for it.”
“Do, Socrates.”
Mr. Smith bounded up the staircase with the agility of a man of half his years, and hopefully opened the door of his chamber, which Jim had carefully closed after him. His first glance was directed at the bureau, but despair again settled down sadly upon his heart when he saw that it was bare. There was no trace of the missing wallet.
“It may have fallen on the carpet,” said Socrates, hope reviving faintly.