“Doubleday, go to Hawkesbury’s desk and bring me the petty-cash book and box.”
Hawkesbury turned pale and broke out into a rage.
“What is this for, Mr Barnacle? I am not going to stand it! What right have you to suspect me?”
“Give Doubleday the key,” repeated Mr Barnacle.
“No,” exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a white heat. “I will not, I will fetch the book myself. He doesn’t know where to find it. He has no business to go to my desk.”
“Remain where you are, Hawkesbury,” said Mr Barnacle.
“What right have you to search my desk? I have private things in it. Uncle Merrett, are you going to allow this?”
“Mr Barnacle has a perfect right to see the petty-cash account,” said Mr Merrett, looking, however, by no means pleased.
“Why don’t you examine his desk?” said Hawkesbury, pointing to me; “he is the one to suspect, not me. Why don’t you search his desk?”
“I have no objection to my desk being searched,” said I, feeling a good deal concerned, however, at the thought of the mess that receptacle was in.