He had asked Bar to be seated, almost mechanically, but, as the door closed on John, he turned to him again with,
“Mr. Wallet?”
“There I am,” said Bar, “all of me you care for, lying on the table.”
There it was, sure enough, in all the glory of its Russia leather, and the good doctor drew a long sigh of relief as he picked it up.
“Where could I have lost it?” he said to himself, aloud. “The judge is clearly wrong about it. May I ask where you found it, Mr.——”
“Vernon,” said Bar. “The visitor you were waiting for was named Wallet. I’m only Barnaby Vernon. Please count your money, Doctor, and see that all the papers are there.”
“Of course,” exclaimed the good doctor, “I’ve no doubt of that, my young friend; there is that in your face which assures me.”
“No, Doctor,” said Bar, “that pocketbook kept me awake all night, for fear you might miss something when you opened it. Please count it over; I shan’t be easy till you do.”
The boy’s face assumed a wonderfully earnest expression as he spoke, and the doctor looked at his fresh, yet strongly-marked young face most benevolently, as he replied:
“I think the judge would say you are right. No man should let money go out of his hand without a receipt, he says.”