it was—­well—­failure.  At this time, there was another meeting of the bank directors.  Nearly all were present.  The cashier presided.  Something had happened again.  Was it another robbery?  But no, the atmosphere was different.  Mr. Bone presented the case in a nutshell:  A package had been received from New York containing fifty thousand pounds, and a letter had accompanied the money.  It ran thus: 

“Mr. Stephen Bone, Cashier, Bank of England: 

“Inclosed find a receipt from Express Company, which will be delivered to you, for the sum of fifty thousand pounds, which is one third of the amount borrowed from you a little over a year ago.  Please to acknowledge its receipt to Express Company, and oblige,

“Yours penitently, Andrew Courtenay.”

“This money,” said the cashier, “was received yesterday and is now in the vault.  Permit me to congratulate the Board upon having now received two thirds of the stolen money.”

“Does anyone know who Andrew Courtenay is?” asked one of the directors.

“No,” replied Mr. Bone, as the others sat silent, “I presume not.  It is not vital, however, since the name is most likely fictitious.”

Job Worth was given a vote of thanks for his services in restoring the fifty thousand pounds, and it was resolved that in each case where the money was refunded further prosecution would cease.

One day, soon after Job’s return, he sat in his bachelor quarters, brooding over his ill luck, as he called it.  So intense was his disappointment that he began to doubt his fitness for the calling he had entered, and to think seriously of resigning.  True, he had been credited with two or three successful investigations, but this last undertaking could hardly be called a success.  He had spent four hundred dollars in recovering one third of the stolen money, and had suffered the thief to outgeneral him.  He concluded that he was stupid.  Why had he not arrested him while he had a chance?  But he had allowed Thurston to put him to sleep, and then possess himself of his watch and a hundred pounds of his money, slipping away while he slept, leaving him a prisoner in his own room.  Surely Thurston, instead of himself, had played the detective.  While in this despondent mood one of his brother officers made his appearance and was greeted with a decidedly doleful “Good morning, Nick.”

But the other’s response was more cheerful.  “Job,” he said, “I’m glad to see you again after your trip.  I understand that the bank people honored you with a vote of thanks.  That was a great thing you did in getting that pile of the bank’s money.”