“Perhaps; but she’s clever enough in some ways,” sighed the lawyer, “and may cause us a lot of trouble yet. That’s why I have deposited this money to the credit of the Eliot Estate. No one can touch it now until the courts decide to whom it belongs. And, by the way, Spaythe, that three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars I borrowed from you is among the lot!”
During this conversation Eric had entered the bank, and seeing the interested group gathered in his father’s office came to the open door just as the judge again mentioned the fatal sum that he had stolen from the safe. His face instantly went white with terror, and he was creeping away when Mr. Spaythe sprang up, seized his son’s arm and drew him into the office.
“Gentlemen,” said the banker, turning to the others, “I too have a story to relate, and I beg you to seat yourselves and listen.”
“May I go, sir?” asked Phil in a troubled tone.
“No, Daring; you must remain; for what I have to say concerns you closely. Sit down.”
Phil sat down. Judge Ferguson glanced from Phil to Eric, who stood with hanging head; then to Mr. Spaythe, whose countenance was cold and severe and bore the marks of a secret sorrow. The constable, accustomed to strange scenes, remained impassive and silent.
“On Saturday night,” began Mr. Spaythe, in a hard, resolute tone, “this bank was robbed of three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars, in gold and currency.”
Eric staggered and caught at the corner of the desk for support. Phil grew pale, for he was astonished at the banker’s knowledge. Mr. Ferguson knew the fact already, having listened to Phœbe’s confession, so he merely glanced at the father and son in a thoughtful way and refrained from comment.
