“Tcha! That impudent girl of his has them, an’ there’s no use asking her to give ’em up.”
“Not the slightest use, Mrs. Ritchie.”
“Well, I’m going home.”
She got into the buggy and drove away. Toby stood motionless a moment, thoughtfully leaning on his crutch as he considered what to do. Spaythe’s Bank was closed, of course, but the boy had an uneasy feeling that he ought not to keep the key to the office in his possession overnight. So he walked slowly to Mr. Spaythe’s house and asked to see the banker, who fortunately was at home.
“I’d like you to take the key to the office, sir, and keep it until it’s wanted,” he explained.
“Very well,” answered the banker, who knew Toby as the trusted clerk of his old friend Judge Ferguson.
“There’s another key,” remarked Toby. “It belonged to the judge, but he always left it in Will Chandler’s care.”
“I have that key also,” said Mr. Spaythe. “Mr. Chandler sent it to me early this afternoon, by the young lawyer who has rented the offices—Holbrook, I think his name is.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Spaythe.”
“I looked in at the offices a while ago and found them in good order,” continued the banker. Then he looked at Toby as if wondering if he had better say more, but evidently decided not to. Toby marked the man’s hesitation and waited.