"Yes," confessed he. "Nevertheless it did not go out of my possession. I had it in the inner pocket of my coat all the time."
"You are sure no one took the things out while you were asleep last night?"
"Why—I—I don't see how they could," faltered Mr. Ackerman. "My servants are honest—at least, they always have been. I have had them for years. Moreover, none of them knew I had valuable papers about me. How could they?" was the reply.
Once more silence fell upon the room.
"Come, Tolman," ejaculated the steamboat man presently, "you are a level-headed person. What is your theory?"
"If I did not know my son and myself as well as I do," Mr. Tolman answered with deliberation, "my theory would be precisely what I fancy yours is. I should reason that during the interval between the finding of the purse and its return the contents had been extracted."
He saw the New Yorker color.
"That, I admit, is my logical theory," Mr. Ackerman owned with a blush, "but it is not my intuitive one. My brain tells me one thing and my heart another; and in spite of the fact that the arguments of my brain seem correct I find myself believing my heart and in consequence cherishing a groundless faith in you and your boy," concluded he, with a faint smile.
"That is certainly generous of you, Ackerman!" Mr. Tolman returned, much moved by the other's confidence. "Stephen and I are in a very compromising situation with nothing but your belief between us and a great deal of unpleasantness. We appreciate your attitude of mind more than we can express. The only other explanation I can offer, and in the face of the difficulties it would involve it hardly seems a possible one, is that while the coat was hanging in the lobby—"
There was a sound outside and a sharp knock at the door, and an instant later Mr. Donovan entered, his face wreathed in smiles. Following him was the woman who had checked the coats, a much frightened bell boy, and a blue-uniformed policeman.