“Burglars!” he echoed, and rushed wildly into the adjoining room. The lid of his strong-box was raised, papers were scattered about the floor. He seemed unable to believe the evidence of his senses; he rubbed his hand across his forehead, muttering, “I must be dreamin’. Nobody couldn’t never have broke that lock, nor picked it neither, and—”
He stepped to the box and stooped over it for a moment; then, straightening himself, turned toward his wife a face from which every vestige of color had fled.
“It’s gone!” he gasped; “every cent of it!”
“How much?” she asked, trembling and distressed.
“All I had; the earnin’s and savin’s o’ years and years o’ hard work!”
“Why didn’t you put it into the bank?”
“Because I was afeard o’ them; banks breaks now and agin, and they’re often robbed, too, by folks inside and out; nobody knows who’s honest and who isn’t. Oh, dear! oh, dear!”
He began picking up the papers and restoring them to their places, groaning and lamenting all the time, and even shedding tears.
“How quiet they must a done it all!” she said, shuddering, and glancing about, half expecting to see a burglar. “I never heard a sound. And they must have been in our room to get the key!” she exclaimed, with a fresh accession of fright at the thought.
“No, they wasn’t!” he said, sharply. “Can’t you see the lock’s broke?”