“I have no right to assert that he would, for I cannot prove it; but some one has done it, and he is the only one who, to my knowledge, has had access to the books. I can only say I know he hates me, and—I also say, Mr. Brewster”—and the honest fellow here straightened himself with conscious integrity, and lifted an unfaltering look to his employer—“that I have never made a false entry upon one of your books.”
Neither was conscious of the presence of a third person in the room as the banker heartily responded:
“I am sure you have not, Gerald; I would stake my fortune upon your integrity and upon your unswerving faithfulness to my interests. I will look into this matter just as soon as I am able. Ah! Allison, I did not hear you come in. What is it, dear?” he concluded, turning, as he caught the sound of her step behind him.
She came forward, blushing and smiling a welcome to Gerald.
“It is time for your beef broth, papa,” she said, as she placed a small salver containing a cup before him.
Then she turned to our hero with outstretched hand.
“What an age it is since I saw you last, Gerald,” she remarked, and then flushed again as she recalled her last interview with him.
He returned her greeting with what warmth he dared in Mr. Brewster’s presence, but with a hand-clasp that spoke volumes.