"Batchelor," called Hawkesbury at that moment, just putting his head out of the door of his box, "will you step here, please?"

Doubleday nudged me again, harder than ever.

"I say," said he, with glee, "you're to be sent too to carry his bag-- see if you aren't."

However, Doubleday was wrong for once. The honour he prophesied was not reserved for me. But another was, almost as surprising.

"Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, almost in his old wheedling tone, "I shall be away for three or four days. I'll get you to keep the petty-cash accounts till I return. I won't leave the regular book out, as I have not time to balance it. You can enter anything on a separate paper, which I will copy in when I return. There is 3 in the cash-box now.

You had better keep it locked up in your desk."

I could not help being surprised that he should fix on me of all persons to undertake this responsibility for him during his absence. It seemed so much more naturally to devolve on its former guardian that I could not help asking, "Don't you think Doubleday had better--"

"I prefer you should do it, please," said Hawkesbury, decisively, bustling off to another desk at the same moment, and so cutting short further parley.

So I had nothing for it but to take up the cash-box, and, after making sure it contained exactly the 3 he had mentioned, transfer it to my own desk.

When I told Doubleday that afternoon what had happened he waxed very facetious on the head of it. He was undoubtedly a little hurt that I should be selected for the charge instead of him. But we were too good friends to misunderstand one another in the matter.

"I expect he's left it with you because you're a young hand, and he thinks you're sure to make a mess of it. That would just suit him."

"I'll do my best to deprive him of the luxury of putting me right," said I.

"If you do get up a tree," said Doubleday, "I'm your man. But I hope you won't, for I don't want to have anything to do with it."

After all it was not such very alarming work. A few people dropped in during the day and paid small amounts in cash, which I received, and carefully entered on my sheet. And a few demands came from various quarters for small disburs.e.m.e.nts in the way of postage-stamps, telegrams, cab fares, and the like, all which I also carefully entered on the other side of my account.

Before I left in the evening I balanced the two sides, and found the cash in my box tallying exactly with the amount that appeared on my sheet. Whereat I rejoiced exceedingly, and, locking-up my desk, thought the keeping of the petty-cash was ridiculously simple work.

That evening when I reached the lodgings I found Jack had arrived before me. I was eager to hear of his success or otherwise at the examination, and he was prepared to gratify my curiosity.

He had got on well, he thought. The _viva-voce_ portion, which he had dreaded most, had been easy, or, at any rate, the questions which fell- to him had been such as he could readily answer. As for the written part, all he could say was that he had replied to all the questions, and he believed correctly, although time prevented him from doing one or two as full justice as they deserved. In fact, after talking it over, we both came to the conclusion that the day's effort had been a success, and if to-morrow turned out as well, all doubt as to the result might be dispensed with.

Then I told him of my adventures, which did not seem altogether to overjoy him.

"I don't know why it is," said he, "but Hawkesbury is a fellow I cannot but mistrust."

"But," said I, "I don't see what there can possibly be to suspect in his handing over this simple account to me to keep."

"All I can say is," said he, "I wish he hadn't done it. Why didn't he hand it over to Doubleday?"

"I wondered at that," said I, "but there's no love lost between those two. Doubleday says he thinks he did it because I am a bit of a fool, and he wants the pleasure of seeing me in a mess over the account."

Jack laughed.

"Doubleday is always flattering somebody," said he. "Never mind; it may be only fancy on my part after all."

Jack wanted to get to his books that evening, but I dissuaded him.

"It can do no good," said I, "and it may just muddle you for to-morrow.

Take an easy evening now, and go to bed early. You'll be all the fresher for it to-morrow."

So, instead of study, we fell-to talking, and somehow got on to the subject of the home at Packworth.

"By the way, Fred," said Jack, "I got a letter from you the other day."

"From me?" I cried; "I haven't written to you for months."

"It _was_ from you, though, but it had been a good time on the road, for it was written from Stonebridge House just after I had left."

"What! the letter you never called for at the post-office?"

"The letter you addressed to `J.' instead of `T.' my boy; But I'm glad to have it now. It is most interesting."

"But however did you come by it?" I asked.

"If you will stop runaway horses when your hands are full you must expect to lose things. This letter was picked up by Mrs Shield after that little adventure, and only came to light out of the lining of her bag last week. She remembered seeing it lying on the road, she says, and picking it up, along with Mary's shawl and handkerchief, which had also fallen. But she was too flurried to think anything of it, and until it mysteriously turned up the other day she had forgotten its existence. So there's a romantic story belonging to your letter."

I could not be satisfied till the interesting doc.u.ment was produced and conned over. We laughed a good deal in the reading, over the reminiscences it brought up, and the change that had come over both our lives since then.

"Mrs Shield says Mary insisted it belonging to her, and that she had no right to send it to me," said Jack, laughing. "What do you think of that?"

"It's very kind of her," said I, "to think anything about it. I say, Jack," I added, blushing a little, "got that photo about you?"

Jack handed out his treasure, and we fell-to talking a good deal about the original of the picture, which interested me quite as much as it did Jack.

"Do you know, Fred," said he, presently, "she doesn't know anything about--about father? She believes she is an orphan, and that I am the only relation she has."

"I'm sure," said I, "it's far better so."

"Yes," said Jack, sadly. "At present it is. But some day she ought to know."

"Why?" said I.

"If he ever--but we're not going to talk of that. What do you say to turning in? That's half-past ten striking by the church."

So ended the first day of suspense.

I regret to say that my last act that day was one of petty larceny!

During our talk about Mary I had held the photograph in my hand, looking at it occasionally, and occasionally laying it down on my knee. When Jack rose and proposed turning in for the night he gathered together the other papers he had taken from his pocket and replaced them. But, strangely enough, he forgot to look for the photograph, or else supposed it was with the other papers.

It wasn't, for it lay under my hand all the while, and presently, when his back was turned, it lay in my pocket.

Later on, when the lights were out and all was quiet, it lay under my pillow for greater security!

No wonder the reader is shocked! If ever there was a clear case of purloining this was. I know it, dear reader. I knew it at the time, and yet I did it.

For I had a motive, which perhaps the reader can guess.