In a moment more the keen, penetrating eyes of the old lawyer were busily reading, with practiced skill, every line and shade on the face of Barnaby Vernon.
“The money and papers are all right,” remarked the doctor, “but our young friend refuses to take any reward or to tell me how he came by the wallet. He says he stole it.”
“Stole it!” almost shouted the judge. “Stole it from the man who found it, I suppose?”
“That’s it,” said Bar. “One man found it in Dr. Manning’s pocket. He gave it away to another man, at once, and he to another, and he to another way back in the crowd. I stole it from that man—or rather, for I was honest about it, I traded him another wallet for it.”
“You’re a deep one,” exclaimed the judge. “I think I’d better have you arrested.”
“Go ahead,” said Bar, quietly.
“Arrest him!” exclaimed the doctor. “What for, I’d like to know?”
“For bringing back your pocketbook,” said Bar.
“Well, well, young man,” said the lawyer, half apologetically, “I don’t mean that, exactly. But it’s all very strange. Don’t you think you deserve any reward?”
“Certainly,” said Bar; “it’s cost me a deal of trouble and worry, besides my carriage-hire this morning.”