There was not a square inch of the cheap Kidderminster carpet that he did not scan earnestly, greedily, but, alas! the wallet, if it had ever been there, had mysteriously taken to itself locomotive powers, and wandered away into the realm of the unknown and the inaccessible.
Yet, searching in the chambers of his memory, Mr. Smith felt sure that he had left the wallet on the bureau. He could recall the exact moment when he laid it down, and he recollected that he had not taken it again.
“Some one has taken it!” he decided; and wrath arose in his heart, He snapped his teeth together in stern anger, as he determined that he would ferret out the miserable thief, and subject him to condign punishment.
Mrs. Smith, tired of waiting for the appearance of her husband, ascended the stairs and entered his presence.
“Well?” she said.
“I haven’t found it,” answered Socrates, tragically. “Mrs. Smith, the wallet has been stolen!”
“Are you sure that you left it here?” asked his wife.
“Sure!” he repeated, in a hollow tone. “I am as sure as that the sun rose to-morrow—I mean yesterday.”
“Was the door open?”
“No; but that signifies nothing. It wasn’t locked, and anyone could enter.”