“Several,” replied Phil, after a brief hesitation. “But, I’ve never even dared to suspect Eric before. I hope I’m wrong; indeed, I must be wrong!”
They were walking along a country lane in the twilight. Phil’s arm was around his twin’s waist; the scent of new mown hay came to them from the neighboring fields.
“I do not think you are justified in accusing Eric to his father,” said Phœbe, musingly. “It will be better to keep your suspicions to yourself.”
“That is my idea. I’m not hired as a detective; I’m merely a bookkeeper.”
“Still,” she said, “you owe a certain loyalty to Mr. Spaythe. If an employee discovers the bank being robbed it is his duty to speak; unless—”
“Unless the robber is the banker’s own son,” added Phil; “in which case it would be a kindness to keep the knowledge from him.”
Phœbe sighed.
“Eric has a good heart,” she observed, “and I’m sure he’d never think of taking money from anyone but his father. He isn’t robbing the customers of the bank by these acts, you know.”
“That is true, for the false entries are certain to be discovered, when the bank will be obliged to make good the deficiencies. Eric realizes this, I suppose. He has been very extravagant lately, and his father keeps him on a very small salary. So, it seems to me, he has been tempted to take what doesn’t belong to him.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said the girl. “It’s a dreadful thing, Phil, any way you look at it. But I do not think it is your place to interfere. Fate will take care of the problem, and Eric’s final downfall is certain.”