He began throwing out the packets that filled the case, glancing hurriedly at the seals. Hood lounged near, watching him languidly.
“Most unfortunate,” he remarked, noting the growing satisfaction on Deering’s face as he continued his examination. “Now that you’ve found that rubbish, I suppose there’ll be no holding you; you’ll go back to listen to the ticker just when I had begun to have some hope of you!”
“It was Pierrette that took it; it couldn’t have been this artist girl,” said Deering, excitedly whipping out his penknife and slitting one of the packages. A sheaf of blank wrapping-paper fluttered to the floor. His face whitened and he gave a cry of dismay. “Robbed! Tricked!” he groaned, staring at Hood.
Hood picked up the paper and scrutinized the seal.
“S. J. Deering, personal,” he read in the wax. “You don’t suppose that girl has taken the trouble to forge your father’s private seal, do you?”
Deering feverishly tore open the other packages.
“All alike; the stuff’s gone!”
Perspiration beaded his forehead. He stared stupidly at the worthless paper.
“You ought to be grateful, son,” said Hood; “yesterday you thought yourself a thief—now that load’s off your mind, and you know yourself for an honest man. General rejoicing seems to be in order. Looks as though your parent had robbed himself—rather a piquant situation, I must say.”
He carried the wrappers to the window-seat and examined them more closely.