“I must have that check to file—the one for two hundred—and it isn’t here,” persisted Phil, who had no intention of neglecting any part of his duty.
Eric stared at him, a moment.
“Hand me that bunch of canceled checks,” he said; “I’ll find it.”
Phil passed the bundle across the desk, and while Eric slowly turned over the paid checks and seemed to examine them carefully the other bent his eyes upon the books and continued his work. After a time, the banker’s son handed back the checks.
“There it is, Phil. I’ve placed it on top.”
Yes, there it was, sure enough, although Phil was positive it had not been in the lot before. He did not refer to the subject again, but went on with his task, feeling miserable and dispirited at the thoughts that intruded themselves upon his mind.
Eric left early that afternoon, when Phil took occasion to carefully compare the two checks issued by Mrs. Randolph. That for two hundred was not numbered and seemed to have been very hastily written.
There was a dull ache in young Daring’s heart as he put away the books and papers and prepared to go home. An odd suspicion had forced itself upon him—a suspicion so cruel and deplorable that the boy reproached himself for harboring it for even a moment.
That evening he had a long talk with Phœbe, his only confidant. After relating to his twin the circumstances of Martin’s deposit and Mrs. Randolph’s curious check he said:
“I know I am wrong to be mistrustful, for Eric is Mr. Spaythe’s only son, and would not, of course, attempt to rob his father. But when Martin pushed his money over the counter to Mr. Boothe he said in a loud voice: ‘There’s three hundred and eighty dollars more toward my savings’; so, in spite of that deposit slip, I am almost sure he banked the entire amount.”