"Where has the trap caught him?" said Mason, coming into the room.
"It is an awful strange thing, sir," answered the clerk. "Mr. Hogarth's only son is the teller of the Bay State Bank in New Jersey. This morning they found that twenty thousand dollars was missing from the vault. No one had access to the vault yesterday but young Hogarth. The cashier was in this city, the combination was not known to any others. There is no evidence of robbery. The circumstances are so overwhelming against young Hogarth that the directors went to him and said plainly that if the money was in its place by Saturday night he would not be prosecuted, and the matter would be hushed up. He protested his innocence, but they simply laughed and would not listen to him. The boy is prostrated, and we know that he is innocent, but there is no way on earth to save him unless Mr. Hogarth can raise the money, which is a hopeless impossibility."
Parks paused, and glanced at Hogarth, the kind of glance that obtains among criminals when they mean, "back up the lie."
The detective buried his face in his hands.
"The discretion of Fate is superb," said Mason. "She strikes always the vulnerable spot. She gives wealth if one does not need it; fame, if one does not care for it; and drives in the harpoon where the heart is."
"The strange thing about it all, sir," continued Parks, "is that Mr. Hogarth has been a detective all his life and now is a member of the Atlantic Agency. It looks like the trailed thing turning on him."
"A detective!" said Mason, sharply. "Ah, there is the open place, and there we will force through."
The whole appearance of the man changed in an instant. He straightened up, and his face lighted with interest. He drew up a chair and sat down at the table, and there, in the chill dark of that November morning, he unfolded the daring details of his cross-plot, and the men beside him stared in wonder.