"After what I have heard here to-night, I am," answered the banker, promptly. "I ought to have done it before; and I should, had I known your mother's circumstances."
That was very unlike Mr. Checkynshaw. Mr. Wittleworth did not like it. His salary was to be doubled as an act of charity, rather than because he deserved such a favor. It was not like the banker to want him at all after what had happened. There was something deep under it; but Fitz was deep himself.
"Perhaps you might help me in finding my papers. Of course I don't care a straw for the three hundred and fifty dollars or so which was stolen with them," suggested Mr. Checkynshaw.
"Perhaps I might; perhaps I have some skill in business of that kind, though I suppose it doesn't exactly become me to say so," added Fitz, stroking his chin. "But if you mean to intimate that I know anything about them, you are utterly and entirely mistaken. I'm an honest man—the noblest work of God."
"I will give you ten dollars a week for the future, if you will return," said Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.
"Of course he will," almost gasped the eager mother.
Fitz was deep. The banker was anxious. It meant something. Fitz thought he knew what it meant.
"On the whole, I think I will not return," replied he, deliberately.
"Are you crazy, Fitz?" groaned Mrs. Wittleworth, in despair.
"Never a more sane man walked the earth. Mr. Checkynshaw knows what he is about; I know what I am about."