THAT morning, about nine o’clock, old Simon Walton rode down to his bank in the one-horse buggy of antiquated type which had come into his possession years before in the foreclosure of a mortgage given by a poor farmer, and which, with its rusty springs and uncouth appearance, was quite in keeping with the character of its present owner.

The bookkeepers were busy at their special duties, and scarcely gave him a glance over their ponderous ledgers as he came in at the front and walked to his desk in the rear. Hanging up his old slouch hat, and seating himself in his big revolving chair, his eyes fell on a stack of letters addressed to him. Rapidly shifting them through his stiff fingers, his attention was drawn to the only one which bore no stamp or postmark. He recognized the writing, and as he held it frowningly before him, his confidential clerk, Toby Lassiter, a colorless and bald young man of medium height, sparse mutton-chop whiskers, and soft, shrinking gray eyes, entered with a slip of paper.

“The cotton quotations you wanted, Mr. Walton,” he said, in the discreet tone he used to the banker on all occasions, lest he might by accident expose to other ears matters his cautious master wished to be kept private.

“Oh yes.” Then, as Lassiter was softly slipping away: “But hold on, Toby! Have you seen Fred this morning?”

“No, sir, he hasn’t been around yet. In fact, Mr. Walton, I wanted to ask you. Only three of us carry keys to the front door—you and me and Fred; and when I was opening up this morning I found that somebody had pushed one of them under the door.”

“Well, I’ve got mine,” old Simon said, with a slow, wondering stare. “Oh, wait! this note is from him; maybe he—” The banker, with fumbling fingers, tore open the envelope and began to read. The waiting clerk heard him utter a gasp. It was followed by a low, subdued groan, and looking like a corpse momentarily electrified into a semblance of life, the old man rose to his feet, the half-read confession clutched in his sinewy fingers.

“He’s gone!” he gasped. “He’s taken five thousand dollars of the bank’s funds, and made off!”

“Oh, Mr. Walton, do, do be quiet!” Lassiter whispered, warningly, as he laid his hands on the arms of his employer, and gently urged him to sit down. The banker obeyed as an automaton might, his wrinkled face beneath his shaggy eyebrows wildly distorted, his lips parted, showing his yellow jagged teeth, his breath coming and going in spasmodic gasps. Every hair on his head seemed to stand dry and harsh by itself as he ran his prong-like fingers upward through the bushy mass.

“Five thousand—five thousand—five thousand!” he groaned; “the low, ungrateful thief; and at a time when he knew it would hamper us and maybe bring on a crash. Look y’ here, Toby, and be quick about it! Run and get the sheriff—if you can’t find him fetch the deputy! Then see if the telegraph office is open. I’ll jail that scamp before night! I want my money! I want my money! He’s no son of mine! I gave him fair warning, as you know, to let up in his damnable course, and he snapped his card-flipping fingers in my face. Hurry up! He can’t be far off; we’ll nab him before the day is over. Run!”

But the clerk lingered. “Mr. Walton,” he began, falteringly, “I never have refused to obey your orders, but Fred ain’t quite as bad as—really, you oughtn’t to handle the boy that way. He’s been a good friend to me, and I’d hate to think I’d stand by and see you take a step like this, mad as you are, when if you’d only be calm a minute, surely you’d realize—”

“Am I the head of this bank or you?” old Walton broke in, as he rose and stood quivering and clinging with both hands to the back of his unsteady chair. “Go and do as I tell you, or, by the God over our heads, I’ll send you about your business!”.

“All right, Mr. Walton,” the clerk yielded, “I’ll do it!”

White as death could have made him, Lassiter passed out at a door on the side of the building and gained the street without being seen by the workers in the counting-room.

“Poor Fred!” he muttered. “He’s too good at heart to be treated this way, and he’s not a real thief, either. Folks have told him all his life that he had a right to more of the old man’s money than he was getting, and he didn’t think it was stealing.”

On a corner he saw Bill Johnston, the sheriff, a man about forty-five years of age, who wore great heavy top-boots, a broad-brimmed hat, and had sharp brown eyes and a ............