“Never mind the law. You must suffer the penalty of God’s law—you need not fear man’s. When you left, Paley, I took your place. I soon discovered what you had done to your books. I had nearly fainted away when I found what you had been doing. There was a deficit of something like twenty thousand dollars.”
“Just thirty-eight thousand, Tom,” I interposed.
“Then you were more ingenious than I took you to be,” added he, with evident disgust.
“I am going to tell the truth.”
“Well, no one has investigated the matter very closely. Indeed, no one knows anything about it but your uncle, Mr. Bristlebach, and myself; not even the cashier.”
“That’s very strange,” I replied, wondering at the secrecy with which the affair had been managed.
“I don’t know that it is. You wrote me that you had learned of your aunt’s death. She died on the day after you left home. Your uncle telegraphed to you in Albany, but was unable to ascertain where you were. The funeral was deferred as long as possible for you, but you did not return. Before your aunt was buried, I discovered what you had been doing, and realized that you did not intend to return. I told your uncle, and the president what I had ascertained, and we examined the books. Captain Halliard cursed and swore like a madman, but after a while he cooled off, and declared that the news would kill your mother.
“Mr. Bristlebach only added that the news would injure the bank, and it would take a year to convince the public that it had lost only twenty thousand dollars; for that was what the deficit appeared to be then, though the rest of it would have soon become apparent, as the foreign accounts were settled. It was therefore decided to say nothing about it. After your aunt’s funeral, Squire—an old lawyer in Court Street, I forget his name—”
“Squire Townsend.”