CISSY: AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL.

Otago Witness, Issue 2914, 19 January 1910, Page 78

CISSY: AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL.

By Mrs J. K. Lawson

THE NOVELIST.

CHAPTER I.—TWO CONVERSATIONS

OOK here. I would rather see old Sandy M'Nair clapping the divot above him with ■ the back of a spade than live to see him take more than his due in any shape or form from anybody! Od'sake. if we can’t be rich, we can, at least, be honest!” I ou spuKß James Maclntyre to his wife apropos of their only son, as they sat enjoying their tea together one summer | afternoon in their fiat three stairs up, whose windows overlooked the easy-going, low-murmuring Kelvin, where the trees bend over and shake their leaves at their own reflection in the calm mirror above the dam. “Sooner see him below the sod, would you? My! I'll go one better than that! I’d kill him with my own hands if ever he was that far left to himself as to take what wasn’t his own!” Mrs Maclntyre was a comely and capable woman, and at this moment spoke with the heat of conviction. “But no fears !” she added, with a confident smile. “Our laddie comes of too good a stock to go off the straight for greed of money !” James drank off his tea, wiped his mouth, and pushed his chair hack from the table—giving himself sea-room, as it were. “Well, it would give me a sore heart to think the laddie was anything but good, and honest. And, as you say,' he’s . come of a good stock. But the temptations that lie in the way of young men in Glasgow are very great.” “And how do yon know that, Je-e-m-es Maclntyre?” queried his wife, with a merry, sidelong glance at him. “Know what?” snapped James. “Anyi body with half an eye in their head can i see that! Just look at the newspapers ! j And you speak about good stock ! What | about that fine laddie of Willie Forj sythe’s? Three years he’s got! I’m sure j the Forsythes were always looked on as decent and respectable.” I “And so they are, Jeems —so they are ! But who did Willie Forsyths- marry? A handless, useless, selfish creature, who oared for nothing hut an easy life and plenty of fine dress!” “Oh, you women J” exclaimed James, with uplifted -palms. “You’re very hard on one another!” i “Much need!” was the scornful retort, i “Did Willie Forsythe expect a featherheaded, self-seeking woman to bring up i an honest, manly son ? Did he expect to j gather figs off thistles, strawberries off } sou rocks ? It’s not the father that makes i the bairns what they are; it’s the mother. | It’s the mother, if she be a woman worthy ■ of Die name, that shapes the mind o-f the j bairn—leads him to the best or the worst j in this world. Ay, and she must begin at the beginning if she’s to get a grip ! of him at all!” • James passed his hand down over his face reflectively. . “Well, maybe you’re not very far j wrong. A mother’s words and ways have great weight.” “Ay, till he gets a wife! But h-e’s made or -marred before that, thanks to his mother. What do you think of that Mary Mac Kay Davie is so much taken up with just now?” “Me? I don't know. I’ve only seen the | lass once or twice. She’s well enough so | far as looks arc concerned.” i “Ay, as far as looks' are concerned—l I agree with you there, Jeems! But, mark i m y words, them that lives longest will sea most. I’ve had my eye on her this j while, and what I see is this. If our j Davie holds on the ways lie’s doing, getj t;ng always the other and the- other pro- ! motion--he’s next to the head bookkeeper j now—-it’ll be all plain sailing; but if such : a thing should happen as that his income would be less than, it is when they marry -—then God help my poor laddie, for she | won’t! There’s not such a thing as the ■ old-fashioned helpmeet to a man nowadays. | It’s no you and me, as it was when we i married, Jeems ; it’s nothing but me and myself with the lassies now—feared to dirty their fconnie white, hands with honest work in their own houses ! Makes me sick !” So warm did’ Mrs Maclntyre wax with her subject that the teapot she held came down with a bang on the little mat, instead of being deposited thereon in the usual gentle manner. | “Well, you needn’t break your new teapot over the head of it!” remarked James drily, “But isn’t it about time ; Davie was coming in now?” I —ay, it’s more than time. ! Dut/you see, be was asked to drink tea j with her ladyship as soon as he left the | office, and after that he was going to take , her to .some grand concert. So he’ll not | be home till good knows when.” j “Ob, that’s the way the wind blows, is j it? Awell, the young must go their own j gait,” said James, rising, with an air of jaunty _ resignation, while “Ay, ’deeday!” sighed his wife, and proceeded to clear the table. At that moment, in a comfortable flat several blocks off, David Maclntyre, a tall, handsome, wholesome-lookinig young man. was sitting down to tea with‘his fiancee’" Marv Mac Kay, to whom he had been lonths. Her ndiatai.-. od position as in a wholesale j just come in: |

■while her mother, in honour of their guest, had placed a vase of flowers in the centre of tire table. It was quite evident that David’s relation to the family was I a gratifying one, for the son-in-law in prospective had risen steadily, step by step, in the office into which he had entered as a very young clerk, years ago, and it was understood that the marriage would take place as soon as he had secured a position as head bookkeeper—either in the -warehouse he was in now, or some other equally good. That evening he was in particularly I good spirits, keeping up a ripple of laugh- | ter with his quips and repartees; nor I was there any abatement of his gleeful I mood when, the hour being up, he j escorted Mary to the concert. | “Look here, Mary, I've some news for j you,” he said, as tney walked down over j the Great Western Bridge together, i “How would you like to see me bookkeeper in Brownlees and Co. ?” Mary started, and the rose in her I rounded cheek took on a deeper tint, j “What do you say that for?” she answered, in a true Scotch fashion, replying to one question by propounding another. “Well, you see, it’s a secret yet; but I got a hint this morning that tneir man is going to London—got the chance of a better position there than hie has in Brownlees ; bigger salary.” s “Oh, but no you think Brownlees would give you more than your own firm would if you liked to wait a little?” said Mary cautiously. She was in no way impulsive, and had a way of looking at things from points of view which would not nave occurred to a more generous or simple-minded girl. “No-o—maybe no. But I’m tired, waiting, Mary. You see, if I got into Browniees—though it wasn’t so much as 1 might get later on if 1 stayed where I am—we could bo married in two or three months instead of hanging' on for as many years.” Mary kept demure silence for a few moments. Then in a cold, firm tone sho said : “No, Davie, I’ve always said I would marry no man with a small wage. And if you were once in Brownless we would never be a bit better off.” “Oh, well, for that matter, I’ve enough now to begin with, if you’ll only say the word. We could get a wee bit flat, and be as happy as two doves in a dovecot till I get rise. Will you not venture, Mary?” “No, Davie; I must have a decent downsitting and a decent income before I marry. And if you cannot give me that, there’s others that will!” And Mary gave her little head a toss, as one who knew her own value. “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that! You may get twenty, but none will ever care for you as I do,” said David, somewhat dejectedly, for Mary was Lis first love, and he was deeply enamoured. “Oh, I don't know about that!” she retorted, with another toss of her head. “There’s as good fish in the sea as ever were caught! I’m not in any hurry! I’d sooner be an old maid than a wife with a poor income! If I cannot hold my head as high as Jean Carstairs when I marry, I’ll stay at home!” David’s countenance clouded heavily as they walked smartly along, and an audible sigh escaped him. “I’ve often wondered at chaps being tempted to take what wasn’t their own, but I can understand it now. Docs love count for nothing with you, Mary ?” “I’m not saying it doesn’t, but I always hear my mother saying, ‘When poverty comes in at the door love flies out at the window.’ ” “That’s nob true, Mary. My father and my mother married on very little, and for many a year she took in students and boarded them —even after we youngsters came home. And they counted nothing hard so long a-s they were always together. They crept up and up steadily to the comfort they’re enjoying now, and my mother often says she would do it all over .again if it was needed. You see, they cared for nothing but one another.” Again Mary Mac Kay tossed her head. “Oh, but that was in the old days! Folk are different now. When a lass marries .she expects a man to keep her, not to be his slave. You stay where you are, Davie—there’s no hurry; and when you (get a- head bookkeeper’s place we’ll marry and have a respectable turnout before the neighbours. You’ve no idea the way folk speak of you if things are not up to the mark.” Again Davie sighed. “I wish I could find a bunch of banknotes somewhere! Bub no such luck for me!” “Don’t speak so. .silly, Davie! You’re only four-and-twenty yet, and I’m twenty-two.” “Well, Mary, if you care enough for me to wait, I'll try to think less about you, and be patient. I know one who will not he sorry.” “And who’s that, if I may ask?” said Mary, glancing up at him with her head coquettishly poised on one side.” “My mother,” said David promptly. Mary did not venture any remark on this unexpected answer. Mrs Maclntyre was a woman who inspired her with a certain unwilling respect—a capable, selfreliant woman, who looked with contempt on the younger generation of girls, who married with the distinct understanding that they were to be —not helpmeets, but dependents. For such she had a name more pithy than polite—as Mary had heard. Here a street car overtook them, and David suggested that they should board it—the distance to St. Andrew’s Hall being considerable, and their time rather limited. CHAPTER lI.—AN OLD DEBT PAID. Next day, when the hour of noon had struck, the bookkeeper in the office of Gordon and Hunter’a wholesale warehouse

1 took the pen from the back of his ear, and turned to his assistant, David Maclntyre. “If it’s, maybe, fifteen minutes or so after the hour before I get back, you’ll not mind, David?” he said. “Mind? No; but all the better pleased. It’ll give me a chance to get the rest of these accounts made out before I get my dinner.” “Well, then, I’m off,” said the bookkeeper. “It’s an old friend I have to meet; he’s leaving .the country, and I promised to see hkn off on the boat. That’s why I’m afraid I may be late.” “Well, well, off ye go!” said David cheerily And, bending over his book, resumed his work, while his superior took his hat and walked out. The tramp of many feet hurrying out of the building sounded in his ears for some minutes, and then silence fell—a long, restful silence, in which the pen of the young clerk quivered rapidly along the lines of the account papers he was filling in. He was at his busiest when a heavy footfall sounded steadily on the warehouse floor and paused at the office door. David looked up, and through the glazed door saw a middle-aged, whitehaired, cleanshaven man, attired in grey tweeds and immaculate as to linen, looking at him inquiringly. Immediately he stepped down from his stool, and opened the door. “This is (Jordon and Hunter’s, isn't it?” queried the man. “Yes.” “And are you the bookkeeper?” “Yes, in the meantime. I am his assistant. He is gone home to dinner — won’t be back for an hour and a-quarter at least. “An hour and a-quarter ! Tchk —tchk! And I must catch the next train —leaves thirty-five minutes from now!” exclaimed tlie man, consulting his gold repeater. “Both partners of the firm are out of town, too, unfortunately,” murmured David, with polite regret. The man mused a. moment, then looked at the young clerk appraisingly. “Well, I don’t see why you can’t do as well as the other. What’s your position here ? Just a clerk?” “Well,” said David modestly, “I am assistant bookkeeper mow, and can attend to anything when the head is out, as he is now.” “Capital—capital! I’ll bo able to ease my mind yet before I go. I want to pay an old debt; been owing it for twelve or fifteen years or more.” “Oh, then I can mark it off in the books and give you a receipt for it. Come in. Sit down.” While the man stepped inside, David proffered him the only chair in the office, on which he seated himself. “Fifteen years! Why, that must be in one of these old ledgers,” David mused aloud, looking up to a shelf where some bulky tomes were neatly packed in a row; “What is the name, please?” “Atkinson—Thomas Atkinson, draper, Ayr.” Scanning the initialled volumes, David suddenly pounced upon one of them, and, whisking off some dust, opened the volume at tlie beginning, running his finger down the record with careful scrutiny. “Here you are!” he exclaimed. “Thomas Atkinson; but —whew-ew —it’s a big sum!” “Yes; too big a sum for a respectable firm to lose. I told Mr Gordon at the time of my failure that L would pay him - some day, but I didn’t blame him when I saw he couldn’t credit me. However, here you are: four hundred pounds, isn’t it?” The amazed David turned to the ledger and again examined the figures, which had been written off as a bad debt. “Yes, Mr Atkinson; four hundred pounds.” “Weil, here you are! One, two, three, four! Just examine these notes and see if they are correct.” David took up the notes which Atkinson produced from a pocket-book, and saw that they were one-hundrod-peund notes of the Bank of Scotland, new and crisp. He examined them carefully, and, finding them all right, laid them down upon the desk, and proceeded to write “Paid in full” under the ledger account, stamping the date vigorously with the company’s automatic stamp. .“Now,” he said', “I shall write you out a receipt.” Turning round on his stool, he took a receipt form, and, filling it in correctly, affixed the necesary stamps and signed it. Then he pressed the company’s purple stamp upon it, and, wheeling round on his stool again, handed it to° the honest debtor, who took it, with a smile of gratification. “There, that’s off my mind! When I failed, fifteen years ago, through bad debts owing me, I said I would pay mine if it took me the rest of my life. Well, I’ve done it. Good-bye!” He held out a hand to David, who gripped it heartily, and, stepping out, convoyed him to the main entrance where they again said “Good-bye!” Greatly pleased with himself and this unexpected customer, David was striding back to the office when he was startled by a scream of mortal terror ringing desperately from the top flat at the°fav end of the warehouse. “Help help! Oh! Murder—murder !” Recognising the voice as that of a hoy employed in the warehouse upstairs. David dashed forward, and, with flying feet, sprang up a flight of stairs to the upper storey, speeding forward towards a packing room, where, at the far end, he beheld a lad clinging desperately to the edge of tne aperture irx the floor above. Snatching up the light ladder which lay on tbs floor beneath. David adjusted it dose to the wriggling boy, who ;soon found a footing on it, and descended safely.

“What on earth were you doing, Johnnie? You might have broken your neck,” said David. “Ay, that’s what I was feared for,” explained the exhausted lad, “I was just down a step or two when I found, the ladder give way—below me. It hadn’t been far enough up, or slipped on the floor—blest if I know bow; but I just iglammed hold of the edge of the trap and yelled. Did you hear me yelling?” David laughed at the fright the yells had given him. “Hear you! I should think I did! Don’t you be playing any more tricks like that, or you’ll be getting the sack. By Jove!” he added, with sudden recollection, and flew down the stairs as swiftly aa he had sped up. A few bounding steps brought him to the office door ; but as he was about to step inside lie paused, with his hand on the door knob, an expression of astonishment on his features. For at that moment his eye had caught a glimpse of a man hurrying towards the front entrance • —the very man to whom he had said “good-bye” only five minutes ago. Why had the old fellow come back to the warehouse after leaving it? The question flashed through his mind, but remained unanswered by any supposition ; and, dismissing the thought of him, David turned into the office. “Jove !” he murmured audibly. “That kid with his screams of murder near drove this busirViss clean, out of my head! Why—where—l’m sure I laid the notes on the edge of that desk beside the ledger!” And with paling features and protruding eyes, he began to search wildly for the notes he had received from Thomas Atkinson. There lay the old ledger, opened where he had entered the payment made. Certainly he had not put the notes inside there; nevertheless, he turned over- the leaves, and, finding nothing, slammed the great book shut again, and restored it to its place on the shelf. That, at least, would give him room to search. The notes might have been whisked down by the old man’s elbow —or by his own, for that matter, seeing his back was to the customer when making out the receipt. Could he have thrust them into the drawer, as he often had a parcel of notes, until he could attend to them, or carry them over to the bank ? Suddenly a glad exclamation escaped him, and, stooping down, he pounced upon something which looked like the lest notes. Alas! and alas! when he fished it up to the light it was only a half-folded piece of buff-coloured paper. Thoroughly alarmed now, he drew out the drawers under the desk and examined them, lifted tbs ledger and day-book, and placed them on a stool, while he explored every spot of the desk itself. In vain—iu vain! No sign of these four crisp banknotes was to be seen within the glass walls of that office. In his desperation he actually plunged both hands into his trousers pockets, lest in a moment of absent-mindedness he might have thrust them there. Then he returned the ledgernow in use and the day-book to their places on the desk, when suddenly, as if struck helpless, he sank upon his stool and sat there in a state of collapse, while within him arose a question—What did that man come back to the warehouse for? Had he come back to the office, and, finding it empty, had But, no—no ! He would not, could, not, listen to this explanation which his sub-consciousness suggested, dismissing it with a, harsh, blunt laughv What? Suspect a man who, after rdteen years, had come back to pay a written off bad debt? Never! But the idea stuck to him, and would not be shaken off. What was to he done in the meantime,? Air Gordon, the head partner, was awav: only the bookkeeper was here to investigate, and somehow Clarke was not the kind of man to confide a trouble use this to. Why mention it to Clarke at aL. At least, until these notes /had turned up —for they were hound to turn up somewhere, somewhere before long. And tna • long-closed ledger, which for years had been shelved up there, it was most unlikely he would be overhauling indeed, another debtor, long forgotten, should repeat the transaction of the • While still deaToeratinig, with his head iu a whirl, whathe had better do to bis dismay be heard the familiar footfalls or the “hands” returning to their various duties, and presently the clocx struck mercilessly the hour for resumption oi afternoon work. , David’s heart stopped beating, Hen rushed at a rate that sent the blocd to In. head and made him dizzy. minutes more, and Clarke would be back, ~ n d only half those accounts ready ! He began to writs again, but could not —those lost notes held him as with a spell. With his pen between Ins teetn, his hand unon the day-book he was copying from, his troubled eyes wandered to the end of the desk, thence to the door now half open, and another question arose for answer. Could he .pebbly have taken up the notes in his hand, and held them there unconsciously while he had convoved the man Atkinson to the door. There was a remote possibility that he might have done so. and. slipping oh Ins etool he opened the office ooor again, and stepped slowly along the way he had convoyed the man out. his eyes scanning each nook and corner along the floor where the hales of goods stood in rows. “Whv. Macintyre. what’s un? What are vou looking for?” queried the voice oi Clarice, who entered the warehouse just then. David flushed like a girl, then grew as suddenly white and gaunt. “Oh, nothing—nothing worth while; just something I thought I had lost.’ The Rubicon was passed, and., though darke noted with soma wonder that his assistant's work on the accounts was not yet finished, he said nothing. But he did wonder -whv David”- countenance should flush and pale so without any cause what-

ever that lie could see. For everything in the office was as he had left it; and then, when he heard the episode of Johnnie and his rescue upstairs, be attributed David’s agitation to that. Enough to make any fellow tremble, he thought. Why, the fool might have been killed but for his assistant’s prompt action! CHAPTER lII.—MRS MACINTYRE INTERVENES. In one of London’s most select restaurants an elderly gentleman of businesslike appearance was being shown by a waiter to one of the neatly-laid tables. Once seated, he gave his order, and. while waiting to be served looked around on the well-dressed crowd of diners with quiet interest. At the table next to him sat another man of about the same age, and quite as respectable-looking. It was a restaurant that only the respectable and well-to-do could afford to patronise. At the first careless scan the elderly gentleman’s eyes took no particular notice of this near neighbour, but returning from their slight review of the scene, they were met by such a look of inquiry in. the eyes of the diner that his own must needs return the scrutiny. Presently the man. rose, and, with his napkin in his hand, leant over towards the new-comer. “Excuse me, sir! If I am not mistaken, you are Mr Gordon?” “Gordon is any name,” said the gentleman so addressed. “May I ask whc Why, bless me, your face somehow seems familiar!” “I daresay you may have forgotten me. My name is Atkinson —Thomas Atkinson, from Ayr—a customer of yours who failed some fifteen years ago. 1 " “Oh, Atkinson! Yes ; I remember. How d’ye do?” And be extended his hand with the courtesy of long habit. Atkinson shook it with such heartiness that Gordon stiffened slightly. The a-ssoi-lised debtoi noted the change, but smiled blandly. “The clerk told me you were away when I called at the warehouse in Glasgow the other day,” he remarked, as he reseated himself, turning his chair to one side, however, so that he could speak with more ease. ;j “Fifteen years is a long time, said Mr Gordon drily. “Are you still in business?” „ , “No, thanks! ' I had enough, of business when- I went bankrupt and had to leave the country, owing your firm four I hundred pounds.” i Atkinson’s speech had a note of gaiety in it which sounded flippant to his old creditor. “You look thriving now!” he remarked. “Well, thank Heaven, I am thriving—have been so for the past ten years ! “Humph ! Glad to hear it! “If you doubt my word —as I’m inclined to think you do—l’d better prove it. Depositing his napkin on the table, he produced a fat pocket-book, and therefrom took the receipt which David had given him. - , , ~ “Your head bookkeeper was out at his dinner when I called to get rid of this old debt, and I’d no time to wait. So I got his assistant to make me out that receipt. I saw him mark it out in the ledger, too. Smart youngster, yon !” Mr Gordon, with a countenance which was a study to see, read the receipt twice over, noting the date, the heading, and the name, “David Maclntyre,” written boldly across the stamps. “Thai is all right, Mr Atkinson, he arid, with a shamefaced sort of smile. “It is a very pleasant surprise, indeed. The more so that we bad the debt written off years ago. I am glad—very glad, indeed—to hear of your prosperity, ior your own sake. You went to some of the colonies, didn't you !' “Yes, to Australia. I’m going back again shortly. Only came back to pay off these few old things and to . have a ban -of eld Scotland again.” „ Here the waiter arrived with Mi Gm- ; don’s order, but when both men had finished they adjourned to a park m the vicinity, and there Atknnsnn told the stoiy of what pluck, perseverance, and Mr table courage had done tor him m land of his adoption. . When at last they parted, Atkinson, as if it were an afterthought, turned after lie had said “Good-bye ! , “Next time I come over 1 11 mavoe bring vou some interest; but in -ie meantime I was only too mighty giad to feel invself a man again.” Mir Gordon, however, protested against the mere mention of interest, declaring, that his late debtor had restored his raitfi in human nature by Ins determined honesty. . „ , ... So enthusiastic did lie feel over tins ■rare transaction that when he arrived home and entered the office a couple oi davs afterwards the first thing he did was to summon his bookkeeper into inn private office and congratulate him on Inis unexpected display of honesty. John Clarke was dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what his employer referred to “ Dear me, Clarke! Didn’t Macintyre tell you that a, Mr Atkinson, from Australia, had been here and paid four hundred pounds of an old debt he owed to the firm since the date of his bankruptcy ?” , . , , Clarke looked dubiously at the bead ol the firm. “I’m sure if such a thing had happened David would have told me.” “Just ask him to come here,” said Mr Gordon stiffly. “Well, sir, as it happens, he’s at home to-day. Ho wan looking so ill and feeling so badly that I took the liberty of advising him to. stay at home and to go to bed this afternoon. The poor chap seemed reallv ill.” “Well. Clarke, in that case, you did quite right. But, failing Macintyre, will you just bring me in the ledger with

T Atkinson’s account in it, some fifteen years I back. One of those closed ledgers it must be.” Clarke stepped out briskly, and made for his oAvn office with an expression of countenance hard to describe; for Mr Gordon Avas anything but a whimsical man, or a man given to erratic delusions, and this yarn about a man Avho bad gone, bankrupt in the time of his predecessors —fiA’e years before he had succeeded him. as head bookkeeper Avell, it Avas a tough one. HoAA'ever Here he glanced along the toav of tomes Avliich held the record of the firm s business for nigh half a century, and, glancing at the dates indicating them, picked oiit the volume Avanted, and bore it_ straight to the private office, laying it doAvn before Mr Gordon. “ That’s it, is it?” said the head of the firm, adjusting his gold-rimmed-spectacles comfortably on his nose. “ Yes, sir. You can see the date. 'And here is the letter A. I think you mentioned the name avas Atkinson.” A“s he spoke, Clarke placed his finger on the indicating letter and threAv open the hook, scanning the record till, startled by the sight of the firm’s newly-adopted stamp on the page, he exclaimed; “Good heavens!” “Yes, Clarke; there it is! You see, my information Avas quite correct,” said Mr Gordon. “ You can see for yourself Avhere your predecessor had Avritten it off years ago. And, besides, Atkinson showed me the receipt, signed by Macintyre, and stamped, too, just as this is. It is very remarkable that you ha\'e heard nothing of the transaction.” The bookkeeper’s eyes flashed in the pale face that he turned to his employer, and his back visibly stiffened. “ I am quite prepared to resign my position, Mr Gordon, until you make an investigation into this matter. In fact, I demand an inquiry. At tire same time, I am bound to say that I haA'-e every faith in David Macintyre.” “ There is no need for your resignation, Mr Clarke. The matter can be investigated quietly, and Avithout any change in our present relations. Nor do I Avish any fuss that may become public. You nay you haA r -e faith in young Macintyre. Well, I say I haA'e faith in you—absolute faith, Mr Clarke—and consequently refuse to accept even an interim resignation. Just go back to your desk, and as soon as Macintyre comes in to-morroAV morning, you send him in to me.” “ Well, I thank you for your confidence, Mr Gordon,” said Clarke; “at the same time, I must repeat I have perfect faith in David.” So saying, be stepped to tbs door, Avhen Mr Gordon called him back. “ You may as well restore the ledger to its place,” said he. “We haA'e both I seen the entry of payment signed by Macintyre—that’s enough. He may have banked the money.” “He hasn’t. I Avas just looking at the bank account yesterday afternoon and this morning at the bank But Macintyre Avould.n’t do that Avithout telling ms.” Without further parley, Clarke closed the ledger with a heavy slap and marched to his own office with it. There he placed it on the shelf in the spot from which he had taken it. Then he sat doAvn on his stool and thought hard. Could this bo the trouble which had Avhitened the young man’s face during the past ten days—melted the flesh from his i bones, and made him the nervous wreck hs had become? A cloud settled on his QAvn open broAv as he thought of the unexpected .possibilities in poor human nature, but he thrust the doubt behind him, inwardly scourging himself for allowing it to come up. Next day David did not put in an apj pea ranee at the usual hour, hut Mr Gordon j scarcely had time to unhai and seat himself comfortably in his own private room j ere a timid knock .sounded on the door. I “Come in!” ho called, feeling sure that tin’s must be Macintyre come to explain matters. His surprise, therefore, Avas manifest when a woman — pleasant-faced, debonair, and Avell-dressecl —entered. “Good morning, madam!” he said. “ What can I do for you?” “A great deal, Mr Gordon—a greatdeal!” she said, in a tone of profound respect. “I’m Mrs Macintyre.” “ Oh, young Macintyre’s mother?” “Yes. Mr Gordon. I’m his mother, and a better son a mother never had! But he’s far from Arell at present, and I just came to -see, Mr Gordon, if you could spare him for a fortnight, so that be might go for a short cruise. The sea air Arould get him up, and the doctor has 1 given him a tonic to stimulate his ap- j petite, for he has eaten very little lately. : His father is isor-ely distressed, but I thought I Avould slip up and see you about ! it, Mr Gordon. There’s nothing like going to the fountain-head.” | Mr Gordon listened Avith eyes fixed on ' his desk, and wearing his most thought- I ful air. ° j “ Ah—ahem ! I’m sorry, Mrs Macin- '■ tyre. All the more that up to date i your son has given us unqualified satis- ! faction. Up to noAv, I say. Ah—ahem ! If you AA'ill ask him to step down to the office and see me, avo might be able to ' arrange for his absence from the office.” “Oh. thank you, sir—thank you! You I must not think me too bold in coming ' to see you’ myself; but, you see, I’m one of those old-fashioned people av!io think it their duty to do- their level best for their children. And David, our eon, is our only child. I thank you again, Mr Gordon. I’ll send him doAvn to see you Ibis afternoon.” And she stepped gaily out of the office, turning Avith a slight obeisance at the door. | CHAPTER iy.—DAVID’S ORDEAL. * Mrs Macintyre had hut, the truth j

Avlien. she spoke of her son as being far from ■well. Since the disappearance of those four one-hundred-pound banknotes, which, he could have sworn, he left on the desk, life had become a secret misery. I His decision to wait and see whether he could not find the money somehow, in some unexpected spot, had been a mistake ; that ho had realised before the day was done, and to speak now without casting suspicion on himself seemed impossible. Then there was the haunting remembrance of that man Atkinson, hurrying out of the warehouse door after his departure only five minutes before. Why had he come back? Could it be possible that, finding the notes on the table, lie had But no, no! The man who had been honest enough to come back and pay a debt so long proscribed was no thief. What was to be done? Supposing he told the bookkeeper’—would he believe him? No; he was certain Clarke would never credit such a story. And even if he did, it would mean dismissal for his carelessness in leaving the money on the desk —if, indeed, he did so. His whole career in life depended on whether or not he found the money—or whether j Iris story would be believed if he did not ’ find it. There was nothing for it that he could ®so but to- hold Iris tongue for a while, at least. Who knew? It might turn up in the most unexpected way. Moreover, it was a hundred chances to one that the old ledger would ever be taken down again to betray his secret. Such was his horror of being suspected even that he determined on the the latter course, with the result that no repentant criminal ever suffered as he did, brooding over the matter. His healthy appetite 1 vanished ; sleep, lie could not. One theory | after another presented itself to his mind | in explanation of the strange disappearj anoe, only to be dismissed as impossible; j and thus night after night passed the | hours of sleep. In one .short week he | looked the shadow of his former self, and j Mrs Macintyre began to suspect that a j quarrel with his sweetheart must be the : cause. Finally, when his father, too, began i to comment on the change in the lad becoming dai]|y more visible, she had spoken to Clarke, the bookkeeper, whom she met on the street one day, and he quite agreed with her that David was , breaking in health. He also suggested j that she should come and see Mr Gordon | herself so soon as that gentleman re- ; turned to-morrow. In the meantime, he had given David a half-day off—that fateful day when, the head of the firm, had told him of the astounding episode. It was with great glee, therefore, that Mrs Macintyre, returning from the office i with the good news that David was to have a, holiday, announced her intention of going down to Dunoon for a fortnight or so. “ And you needn’t look so angry about it, David,” she said, seeing that his face i flushed with annoyance at her having gone ! to the office on his behalf. ' ■’ “ I knew well enough that you would not ask leave, no matter 'how ill you were ; but I can’t afford to run the risk of losing you, my man, so you’re to get oil all right. He’s a nice man, Mr Gordon ; and he says if you’ll come in this afternoon lie’ll arrange for you to get > away.” j The first flush of annoyance faded from ; David’s face as he listened—fading to ' a ghastly whiteness. I “I must have a drink of water,” he said, in a faint voice, and, rising, went to the tap, and, fillipg a glass, drank 1 deep. j David had breakfasted off a solitary cup of tea that morning, and any appetite j which he might have acquired for dinner i was totally extinguished by the prospect of an interview with the head partner of I the firm —-though, of course, he could i know nothing of what had happened. It | was in vain that Mrs Macintyre prepared a savoury tit-bit for him at noon; he ’ could eat nothing. The dark cloud of j imputed criminality hung lower and lower over him. He must screw up his courage | for this application for a holiday for ! which his mother had begun to negotiate. ; After that he might feel like eating. I It was in an utterly exhausted condition, therefore, that he tapped at the private office door somewhat late in the afternoon, and it was a pale, apprehensive face that greeted Mr Gordon’s sonorous invitation to “ Come in !” “Oh, it’s you, Macintyre! I’m glad you’ve come! I was just thinking of I you.” And, rising from his desk, Mr j Gordon stepped to the doorway and i called: “Are you there, Clarke? Just i step here for a minute, will you?” ) Something in his tone struck a chill j through David, and, without being in- ’ \dted, he eat doAvn on the nearest chair, i Avhile his employer resumed his accus- I tomed seat. Presently Clarke entered, I and, with a SAvift glance at his assistant, i turned inquiringly to the desk. “ Just shut that door, Clarke,” said Mr Gordon, and cleared for action by: a loud “Ahem!” ( “ Your mother tells me you are in need of a long holiday,” he said, with a j hint of oarcasm in his tone. “ I’m in- ' dined to agree with her.” '| David made no response. He sat and : stared at his employer with eyes that glittered in a marble-white face. But, first, I wish to ask you a question. On the answer to that question | depends whether you Avill be at liberty to go anywhere. What did you do with four hundred pounds which an old customer of mine paid into your hands one day during the noon hour, Avhen you "were left in charge of the office? A truthful, absolutely truthful answer vvi 11 go a. long Avay in your favour. What did you do Avith the money?” j “I don’t knoAv,” Avas the low, quiet’ aneAv.er. i “ You don’t know? Then who knows?” .

’ demanded Mr Gordon, in Ins sternest manner. “Do you admit that you ie-ce-ived the money?” “ I received the money all right. Thei'o j mere four notes of a. hundred pounds each.” ’ „ i “And you gave him a. receipt for it | “I did. Not only that, but I tcoK down the closed ledger and turned to his name and wrote ‘ Paid ’ and my name across it, and then I stamped it with j the firm’s stamp. If Mr Clarke will bring the ledger I can show it to you.’ : " I have already seen it,” said Mr Gordon calmly. “ But all this does not 1 answer my Question. What have you done with the money?” “ Nothing. I know nothing about it. All f can do is to tell you how it—the whole thing happened.” j “Humph!” grunted Mr Gordon. Then, . turning to- the bookkeeper, he said cyni- \ cally: “ Sit down, Clarke. Let us hear I this original yarn.” i Clarke sat down, but a hot flush had risen to the face of David. His eyes flashed; he made as if to rise, but his strength' failed him. He eat .still and mute, with lips pressed hard together—- ! the picture of silent indignation. ! “Well, Maclntyre, go on with your story,” said Mr Gordon drily, I “ What’s the use?” burst forth David, feeling outraged by the accusation implied in his employer’s sarcasm ot speech and manner. “You would not believe me. It is because 1 felt you would not believe me that I was afraid to speak till I had time to perhaps find what I had dons with the accursed notes.” | A peculiar wondering expression grew in ; Mr Gordon’s face as he stared at his. I young employee. Be could scarcely bej li-eve that the quiet, well-bred boy, as I he still considered him, could be the | indignant man who thus protested I against being judged before being beard. I Meanwhile, the bookkeeper, with undisguised sympathy, interposed gently. J “Well, David, my man, say your say, | whatever it is. Accidents happen to the best of us, and you can’t blame Mr Gordon. He only wants to hear the truth.” The tone more than the words brought 1 j David to himself, though the ordeal j seemed to have extinguished the lingering j youth in him. He struggled with tho physical faintness that threatened to overpower him, and, straightening himself . with a new dignity, he told the whole ; incident as it happened, j “I’ll not say,” he concluded, “ buti that I should have seen to the money before I ran up the stairs, but that cry of ‘ murder and help ’ drove every thought but Johnnie’s danger out of me for the time ; and,” he added, with a hint of ' defiance, “ I still consider the lad’s life of more- consideration than twice font hundred pounds.” There- was a sudden twinkle in tlweye of Mr Gordon ; nor was it one of ’ displeasure at this last shot by David in his own defence. After a moment of musing silence h( said quietly: “ 'Well, in- the absence of my partner and the other members of the firm, I i think we had better let the matter stand , in abeyance until their return, when wa • can consult as to what had better be-d-one—whether to retain your services* or ” j But David had suddenly risen to hit i feet, a new look of determination on hif I face. j “ I thank you kindly, Mr Gordon, but I couldn’t think of coming back where; ■ I was distrusted and suspected. Not that; I blame you. It’s- a big sum of money j to lose sight of -so carelessly, but I just I couldn’t work where I was doubted. It ) would- drive- me to the mad-house. I’m i most crazy now for want of sleep think- ; ing of it. If -ever the money be found or heard tell of, I’ll come back, and be i glad of the chance.” | So saying, he stepped cut with a short j “Good-day, Mr Clarke!” and strode witi a- firm step out of the warehouse. | He had only gone a few rods dowy the street, however, when he heard hit name called, and. turning, beheld th< bookkeeper hurrying towards him. “Man. Davie, you’ve an awful temper when you’re roused. Mr Gordon aay( you’re to corns and get a cheque fo* 1 your month's salary due to-morrow.” I Davie, intensely surprised, hesitated a moment, but finally turned and walked back. j “It’s a terrible business, Davie, my 1 man; but- it’ll 20me right some daw. Yon trust in God and do- right, and you’ll be brought through. My opinion is" that that old boy Didn’t you sav you ■saw him going out of the warehouse fof the second time when vou <mt back from Johnnie’s rescue?” , “Mr Clarke, after the lesson I’ve gol I’ll not allow myself to suspect anybody • not the devil himself. But- I’ll be glad of my salary; it’ll help me to get away somewhere.” They reached the office, where a cheque tor his men til’s salary was handed him, after winch there was a. fervent- and significant handshake from the bookkeeper, and David found himself once more in the -street. And there, a few paces off, whom should ho see coming up, with Wythe and snrinm m - ® t * l P to meH him, but his promised wife, Mary Mack ay ! (To be continued.)