“What in the world—how did it—who——?” she began, hardly knowing what question to ask first. But the deacon cut in with:
“I don’t know any more about it than you do. I came down in time to see somebody go through the window and kick over the lamp. Then the fire started and I had to hustle to put it out.”
“Some one went through the window! Who in the world could it have been? Did you speak to him?”
“Burglars don’t generally leave a card, nor stop to talk,” answered the old man grimly. “But I guess——”
The deacon did not finish, but crossed the room to his desk. He noticed that the flap was down, and he knew he had closed and locked it the night before. Hurriedly he ran through his papers, and then straightened up with a queer look on his face.
“They’re gone!” he gasped. “Gone!”
“What?” asked his wife. “What’s gone?”
“My investment papers—the securities—the only thing I had to show what money was due me. They’re gone and whoever has ’em can make use of ’em! I’ve been robbed!”
Turning again to the desk he opened a small drawer.
“He took the money too!” he muttered. “Every cent of it, and there was nigh on to a hundred dollars there!”