“About that time,” replied the bookkeeper, rather taken back by the question, which bore a fatally significant bearing.
“During the last three years you have enjoyed a considerable degree of my confidence, which has, if anything, increased since the first of the year. How have you returned this trust I reposed in you, sir?”
“How, sir?” faltered the bookkeeper, his guilty conscience flying into his sallow face. “Why——”
“Mr. Vyce, for some weeks past I have had reason to believe that some one conversant with certain plans of mine was giving information to the clique that is opposing me in the market. You are the only one to whom I have opened my lips in this office. I have long regarded you as my right-hand man—a man I thought I could trust.”
“Is it possible that you accuse me, Mr. Whitemore?” asked the bookkeeper, with an injured air.
“I do accuse you, Mr. Vyce, of playing the part of traitor to my interests,” said the corn operator sternly.
“But, sir, unless you have some proof it is unfair——”
“I have the words of a certain Mr. Guy Dudley as evidence that you sold yourself to the pool headed by Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington.”
At the mention of Dudley’s name Mr. Vyce turned as pale as death.
“Guy Dudley!” he exclaimed in a trembling voice. “Why, how could you have seen him? He is not in Chicago.”