"What is this for, Mr Barnacle? I am not going to stand it! What right have you to suspect me?"

"Give Doubleday the key," repeated Mr Barnacle.

"No," exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a white heat. "I will not, I will fetch the book myself. He doesn't know where to find it. He has no business to go to my desk."

"Remain where you are, Hawkesbury," said Mr Barnacle.

"What right have you to search my desk? I have private things in it.

Uncle Merrett, are you going to allow this?"

"Mr Barnacle has a perfect right to see the petty-cash account," said Mr Merrett, looking, however, by no means pleased.

"Why don't you examine his desk?" said Hawkesbury, pointing to me; "he is the one to suspect, not me. Why don't you search his desk?"

"I have no objection to my desk being searched," said I, feeling a good deal concerned, however, at the thought of the mess that receptacle was in.

"It is only fair," said Mr Barnacle. "This gentleman will search both, I dare say. Doubleday, show this gentleman both desks."

It was a long, uncomfortable interval which ensued, Hawkesbury breaking out in periodical protests against his desk being examined, and I wondering where and how to look for help. The partners meanwhile stood and talked together in a whisper at the window.

At length the gentleman, who, it had dawned on me, was not a bank official, but a detective, returned with Doubleday, who carried in his hands a few books and papers.

The petty-cash book and box were first delivered over, and without examination consigned to the safe.

"These letters were in the same desk," said the detective, laying down the papers on the table. They appeared to be letters, and in the address of the top one I instantly recognised the handwriting of the letter sent to Mary Smith, which I still had in my pocket.

Hawkesbury made an angry grasp at the papers. "They are private letters," he exclaimed, "give them up! What right have you to touch them?"

"Hawkesbury," said Mr Barnacle, "in a case like this it is better for you to submit quietly to what has been done. Nothing in these papers that does not concern the matter in hand is likely to tell against you.

Is that all, officer?"

"That's all in that desk," said the detective. "In the other young gentleman's desk the only thing besides business papers and litter was this key."

A key? What key could it be? It was the first I had seen of it!

"Let me look at it," said Mr Merrett, suddenly, as the detective laid it on the table.

It was handed to him, and his face changed as he took it. He turned for a moment to show it to Mr Barnacle and whisper something. Then he said, "This is my key of the safe, which I left last night in the pocket of my office coat in this room!"

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

HOW I ENDED THE DAY MORE COMFORTABLY THAN I HAD EXPECTED.

My misfortunes had now fairly reached a climax, and it seemed useless to struggle against circ.u.mstances any more.

Of course, I could see, as soon as my stunned senses recovered sufficiently to enable me to perceive anything, that the same false hand which had pointed me out as a thief had also placed that key in my desk as part of his wicked plot. I remembered that when I was conveyed up to the sample-room that morning my desk had been open. Nothing, therefore, could have been more simple than to secrete the key there during my absence, and so lay up against me a silent accuser which it would be far harder to gainsay than a talking one.

But what was the use of explaining all this when evidently fortune had decreed that I should become a victim? After all, was it not better to give in at once, and let fate do its worst?

"This is my key of the safe," said Mr Merrett, and all eyes turned on me.

Nothing I could say, it was clear, could do any good. I therefore gaped stupidly at the key and said nothing.

"How came it in your desk, Batchelor?" asked Mr Barnacle.

I didn't know, and therefore I couldn't say, and consequently said nothing.

"Have you any explanation to offer?" repeated Mr Barnacle.

"No," I replied.

"Then, officer," said Mr Merrett, "we must give him in charge."

The bare idea of being walked off to a police-station was enough to drive all my sullenness and reserve to the four winds.

Suddenly finding my tongue, I cried--

"Oh, please don't, please don't! I can explain it all. For mercy sake don't be cruel--don't send me to prison! I am innocent, Mr Merrett, Mr Barnacle; I can explain it all. Please don't have me locked up."

In my confusion and panic I turned round and addressed these last words to Hawkesbury, who received them with a smile in which there was more of triumph than pity.

"You false coward!" I exclaimed, suddenly seeing who it was, "you did this. You put the key in my desk while I was locked up stairs."

"Really, Batchelor," replied he, in his sweetest tones, "I'm afraid you hardly know what you're saying. I don't understand you."

"You do," said I, "and you understand how helpless I am to defend myself. You and Masham did your work well this morning."

"At any rate," retorted he, firing up, "we gave you a lesson for your impudence."

Mr Merrett had been speaking with the detective, and did not hear this dialogue; but Mr Barnacle did, happily for me.

"Then," he said, turning short round to Hawkesbury, "Masham _was_ here this morning?"

Hawkesbury, thus suddenly cornered, turned first red, then white, and tried to mumble out some evasion. But Mr Barnacle was not the man to be put off in that way.

"Then he _was_ here this morning?" he demanded again.

Hawkesbury had no retreat, and he saw it.

"He just called in for a moment," he said, sullenly; "that's all."

"Oh," said Mr Barnacle, "you can go to your desk, Hawkesbury, for the present."

Hawkesbury, looking anything but triumphant, obeyed, and Mr Barnacle, who evidently suspected the real truth more than his partner did, turned to me.

"Batchelor, do you still decline to offer any explanation of the discovery of this key in your desk?"