“Have you any stock on hand—I mean flour and feed?”
“We don’t keep stock any more. We simply sell on commission.”
At this announcement Frank felt more depressed than ever. There would then be nothing to attach, in case Jabez Garrison had really fled. He looked at the office furniture. It was old and dilapidated, and if put up at auction would probably not fetch over twenty or thirty dollars.
“Does Mr. Garrison own any property?”
“Not that I know of. He used to have a house on Walnut Street, but he sold that about a year ago.”
Here was more cause for regret, and Frank heaved a deep sigh. He felt that the news he would carry home would nearly prostrate his parents.
“And just when father is helpless with that crushed foot,” he thought. “It’s too bad! Oh! if only I could catch this Jabez Garrison and make him give up what he has stolen.”
It was after five o’clock when Bardwell Mason returned.
“Have you seen anything of him?” he asked, briefly.
“Nothing whatever,” answered Frank.