The officer’s eyes twinkled.

“So this is Mr. Sandford’s room?”

“Yes, but he is absent, as you were told before.  Lay Charles on the bed, if you please.  There, that will do.  I will attend to him now.  You can return to the lower story.”

“In a minit, Ma’am.  Duty is duty, and this ’ere accident saves some trouble,” casting sharp glances around the room.

The facts, that Sandford had drawn from the bank, and that he had borrowed from Tonsor, were known to the creditors.  The officer had determined, therefore, to make what search he could for the money.  The unlooked-for accident had given him the opportunity he wanted.

“What do you mean, Sir?  Go back to your place.”

“Softly, Ma’am, softly!  Duty is duty; an’ ’f any damage is done, I’m responsible.”

His eyes fastened upon a dressing-case that lay on a table near the mirror,—­apparently the last article handled by the occupant of the room.

“No robbery, Ma’am,” said he, opening the case, and taking out its contents.  “Razors and brushes, and such like, is personal, and not subject to levy; but these, Ma’am, you see, air.”

He held up a pocket-book full of bank-notes.

“I’ll count ’em before you, Ma’am, if you please, so’s there’ll be no mistake.  Thirteen thousand!  A pretty good haul!  I’ll go down, now.  If anythin’s wantin’ for the chap when he comes to, jest le’me know.”

With a gleam of intense satisfaction on his sharp and vulgar features, the officer descended the stairs.

CHAPTER XVIII.

John Fletcher sat by his fireside, reading the evening papers.  The failures of the day, of course, engaged his attention; among them, those of Sandford and his associates were not unexpected.  His little wife sat by him, fondling the weakly baby.

“Old Sandford has gone by the board, ducky.  Good enough for him!  He’s come to grief, as he deserved.  He’ll never trouble me any more.”

“I’m afraid a good many more’ll come to grief, as you say, before this panic is over.”

“Some, of course; the dead trees, and the worm-eaten, powder-posted ones, will fall in the high winds, naturally.  But old Bullion is safe.  No rotten hollow in his old white-oak trunk;—­sound as a ship’s mainmast.”

“Is it Bullion who owes you?”

“Yes.  I have his notes for ten thousand dollars; and our next settlement, I calculate, will give me as much more.”

“Why don’t you get your pay?”

“What should I do with it, my duck?  I couldn’t lend it to anybody safer.  If I deposit, the bank is as likely to fail as he.  As long as he has the whole capital to swing, he will make the more for us both.”

“I would rather have the money.”

“That shows how little you know about it.”

“I know, if you had it, and didn’t lend it nor speculate with it, you couldn’t lose it.”