“Monckton,” said his employer, gravely, “I have made a very ugly discovery.”

Monckton began to shiver.

“Periodical errors in the balances, and the errors always against me.”

Monckton began to perspire.  Not knowing what to say, he faltered, and at last stammered out, “Are you sure, sir?”

“Quite sure.  I have long seen reason to suspect it, so last night I went through all the books, and now I am sure.  Whoever the villain is, I will send him to prison if I can only catch him.”

Monckton winced and turned his head away, debating in his mind whether he should affect indignation and sympathy, and pretend to court inquiry, or should wait till lunch-time, and then empty the cash-box and bolt.

Whilst thus debating, these words fell unexpectedly on his ear: 

“And you must help me.”

Then Monckton’s eyes turned this way and that in a manner that is common among thieves, and a sardonic smile curled his pale thin lip.

“It is my duty,” said the sly rogue, demurely.  Then, after a pause, “But how?”

Then Mr. Bartley glanced at Bolton in the lobby, and not satisfied with speaking under his breath, drew this ill-chosen confidant to the other end of the office.

“Why, suspect everybody, and watch them.  Now there’s this clerk Bolton:  I know nothing about him; I was taken by his looks.  Have your eye on him.”

“I will, sir,” said Monckton, eagerly.  He drew a long breath of relief.  For all that, he was glad when a voice in the little office announced a visitor.

It was a clear, peremptory voice, short, sharp, incisive, and decisive.  The clerk called Bolton heard it in the lobby, and scuttled into the street with a rapidity that contrasted drolly enough with the composure and slowness with which he had been brushing his hair and titivating his nascent whiskers.

A tall, stiff military figure literally marched into the middle of the office, and there stood like a sentinel.

Mr. Bartley could hardly believe his senses.

“Colonel Clifford!” said he, roughly.

“You are surprised to see me here?”

“Of course I am.  May I ask what brings you?”

“That which composes all quarrels and squares all accounts—­Death.”

Colonel Clifford said this solemnly, and with less asperity.  He added, with a glance at Monckton, “This is a very private matter.”

Bartley took the hint, and asked Monckton to retire into the inner office.

As soon as he and Colonel Clifford were alone, that warrior, still standing straight as a dart, delivered himself of certain short sentences, each of which seemed to be propelled, or indeed jerked out of him, by some foreign power seated in his breast.

“My sister, your injured wife, is no more.”

“Dead!  This is very sudden.  I am very, very sorry.  I—­”

Colonel Clifford looked the word “Humbug,” and continued to expel short sentences.