The Daring Twins

CHAPTER XVIII
A SISTER’S LOVE

Phil looked up and down the dark, deserted street. Eric had made off so quietly that not a footfall had been heard. But no one was abroad to see him, however much noise he might have made.

The back room of Spaythe’s Bank was witnessing a succession of curious scenes this eventful night. Phil had opened the safe again and was counting the money. It was a long count, and must needs be accurate; but Phœbe, now cool as ice, helped him in her methodical way and it was not necessary to inspect more of the currency than the packets of bank notes and the gold.

“Whew!” whistled Phil, when the final figures had been made. “Eric wasn’t at all bashful, was he? He grabbed more than three thousand dollars!”

“Three thousand, three hundred and ninety,” repeated Phœbe, jotting down the exact amount on a slip of paper. “All right, Phil; that is what we wanted to know. Now, put this dreadful stuff away.”

He complied. There was a queer feeling in the young fellow’s chest, as if iron fingers were gripping his heart. His worst fears had been realized and he had become the innocent victim of his former friend’s diabolical scheming.

As the Daring twins walked home together through the still night, arm in arm, they exchanged few words. Phil reflected that his business career was practically ruined. Here in Riverdale, his old home, he would be scorned and reviled as a common thief, and wherever he might go in the big outside world his disgrace would be sure to follow him. And what of Eric Spaythe, the false friend who had planned his downfall and would profit by it? With means to pay his debts, and so prevent his father’s knowledge of his past extravagance, Eric would doubtless be more cautious in the future. In time he might become the proprietor of the bank he had to-night so cleverly robbed. As for the false entries on the books, made to cover the minor thefts that had preceded this coup, all evidence would point conclusively to Phil Daring as the culprit. That poor and struggling youth was to become the scapegoat to shield Eric Spaythe, the rich banker’s son.

Phil groaned in spirit, but believed himself to be absolutely helpless.

Phœbe, on the contrary, had recovered her cheerfulness, and as she kissed her twin good night in the hall she whispered:

“Forget about Eric, dear. There’s nothing to worry about, so try to get some sleep. Now that we know the truth, and just what to expect, it will be easy to save you from this contemptible plot.”

Phil clasped the girl close in his arms. It was good to feel that Phœbe, the one person he loved most in all the world, knew his innocence and believed in him. He must be brave and face the future calmly, for her sweet sake.

In his room he looked at his watch. Two o’clock. By this time Eric was well on his way to St. Louis. Phil sighed, went to bed, and having a clear conscience was presently sound asleep.

Phœbe pleaded a headache next morning and did not go to church with the others. Phil, solemn eyed and with careworn features, accompanied Cousin Judith and the children and did his best to keep his thoughts on the sermon.

From her window Phœbe endeavored to watch the movements of old Miss Halliday, but found the woman keeping close to the room in which Gran’pa Eliot was confined. Perhaps she was engaged in her morning’s work, but strangely enough the chickens had been neglected and were plainly calling for food and water.

In order to ease the nervous strain of waiting Phœbe moved softly around the rooms occupied by the Darings and removed all the keys she found in the locks. Having carried these to her room she began trying them in the lock of the door that connected old Elaine’s chamber with her own. She moved carefully and silently, but to her despair none of the keys would fit. A second time she tried them, with no better success. While engaged in replacing the borrowed keys she happened to think of a big bunch of old keys hanging in the closet of the room occupied by Sue and Becky. She readily found this bunch, and with it hurried back to her chamber. One by one the keys were tried and gradually her heart sank as they proved to be too large or too small. There were now but three left on the bunch and she was crouching on her knees before the door when suddenly she heard Elaine enter the other room.

To her astonishment the woman was sobbing and muttering in the same breath, and seemed to be laboring under great excitement.

“It can’t be!” Phœbe heard her say again and again. “It can’t be. No, no, no! – it can’t be.”

Up and down she paced, and finally the girl heard her throw herself upon the bed and give way to a violent outburst of sobbing.

Phœbe dared not move. Her limbs were cramped and numb, but she sat crouching beside the door until gradually Miss Halliday became more quiet and rose from the bed.

“One thing is certain,” muttered the woman in a firmer tone. “No one shall know!”

Again she paced the floor, by degrees recovering her wonted composure. The sobs and mutterings ceased. At last she left the room, and Phœbe breathed freely once more. Then the girl glanced at the bunch of keys she held. With those three that still remained untried lay her sole chance of saving Phil’s honor.

The first was rusty and too big for the lock. The second turned easily, and with a sharp click the bolt flew back. Then Phœbe dropped her head in her hands and began to cry. The transition from despair to joy had been so sharp that it unnerved her; but now she was free to carry out her plans.

Wiping the tears from her eyes she sighed deeply and rose to her feet. On turning the handle of the door, very softly, she found that it would open with perfect freedom. She put her head within the room a moment – just long enough to note that Elaine had left it in perfect order – and then she closed the door again.

Would it be wiser to act at once, or to wait?

Her own anxiety and excitement had, until now, prevented her from appreciating the evident fact that something unusual had occurred in the other part of the house which the old woman regarded as serious. The housekeeper was not prone to give way to violent outbursts of grief. “It can’t be!” she had exclaimed. What couldn’t be? “No one shall know!” Elaine had cried. What could have happened that must be kept a secret? The girl’s first thought was that in some way Elaine had been robbed of the treasure, and Phœbe’s heart stood still as she contemplated that awful suggestion. But perhaps it was some personal matter not connected with Gran’pa Eliot’s hidden hoard.

Going to her window she watched in vain for the housekeeper to appear in the garden; then, unable to restrain her impatience, she ran downstairs and around the corner until she came to the lane at the back. Pausing beside the big maple she looked around at the house and from her position saw Gran’pa Eliot propped up in his chair before the window, his lusterless eyes fixedly regarding the landscape spread out before him.

The window of the next room, where he slept, was open, too. Phœbe could see the housekeeper making the bed and straightening the furniture.

Presently, Elaine came to the window and stood motionless, staring across the fields as if in deep thought. Phœbe shrank back into the shade of the maple.

Now the woman left the window, emerged from the door at the head of the outside stairs, and quietly descended to the yard. Phœbe quitted her post at once and fairly flew back to the house, never pausing until she had regained her own room. Breathless from her run, she paused to peer from the window. Elaine was mixing food for her chickens.

In a moment Phœbe was in the forbidden room. She went straight to the mantel and tried to pull it outward, as she had seen Elaine do; but it refused to move. With a growing fear at her heart she examined closely the framework and finally noticed that one part of the carving was discolored more deeply than the rest, as if with constant handling. Pressing hard against this place, Phœbe desperately dragged the mantel toward her, and this time it swung free of the wall and disclosed the secret cupboard.

Elaine had not been robbed. There were the neat piles of money, just as she had seen them from her peephole.

Phœbe hesitated a moment. She wanted a certain sum in bills, and another in gold, but it would be dangerous to count the money there. So she took several packets of bills and ran with them to her room. Returning quickly, she pushed the mantel into place and proceeded to pull up a section of the rag carpet. A small iron ring enabled her to lift the trap, and a moment later she had carried a sack of gold through the connecting doorway and dumped it upon her bed.

A swift look through the window showed that Elaine was preparing to ascend the stairs again; so Phœbe ran into the housekeeper’s chamber, let down the trap and rearranged the carpet. Then she softly retreated and closed the door after her.

She breathed more freely now, but her task was not yet accomplished and the family might return from church at any moment.

Opening the packets of bills she began carefully counting them. The first lot proved of small denominations and totalled so insignificant a sum that the girl was panic-stricken for fear there would not be enough paper money for her purpose. But the next packet proved to be all fifties and one-hundreds, and less than half its bulk sufficed to make up the amount of bills that Eric had abstracted from the safe.

She counted out the gold next, and as this sack chanced to contain only pieces of twenty dollars each there was much more than she required. At the bank, while Phil was discovering the extent of Eric’s theft – when the vague idea of saving him first began to dawn in her mind – Phœbe had seen a pile of canvas bags, used to contain gold, lying upon a shelf. One of these she had quietly abstracted, for on it was printed in black letters: “Spaythe’s Bank of Riverdale.” It was a similarly marked sack which Eric had taken, and now the girl brought out the bag, placed the proper amount of gold in it, and neatly tied it up. Then she made a package containing both the gold and the bills and after winding it securely with cord placed it in a drawer of her bureau.

This much being accomplished she breathed easier; but it was necessary to replace the surplus gold and bills in the hiding places from whence she had taken it. She felt no hesitation in employing a portion of Gran’pa Eliot’s hoarded wealth to save her brother from an unjust accusation. It seemed to her quite a proper thing to do, for the family honor was at stake. Gran’pa could never use the money, and his granddaughter was defiant of old Elaine’s self imposed watch upon the treasure. Yet Phœbe would not touch a penny more than stern necessity compelled her to.

Her heart bounded and then stopped beating as the housekeeper was heard to enter the next room and renew her nervous pacing up and down – up and down. Elaine was not likely to discover her loss, just yet; only at dead of night was she accustomed to pander to her miserly instincts by counting over the money. So Phœbe took courage.

A long time the girl sat silently awaiting an opportunity to restore the balance of the treasure. Meantime, she wondered again what had come over the usually methodical, self-possessed housekeeper to make her act in so queer a manner. No doubt some important event had occurred in her life; but what could it be?

A chorus of merry voices announced the return of Cousin Judith with her brothers and sisters. She hesitated, half expecting Elaine would now leave her room, but the woman wholly disregarded the Darings and continued her monotonous pacing. So Phœbe concealed the money under her pillows and noiselessly quitting the room went down to meet the family.

The sense of triumph now experienced by the girl made her regard Phil’s gloomy looks with complacency, if not with cheerfulness. She bustled about, helping Auntie to set the table for dinner and listening to the chatter of the children, and all the time the warm glow in her heart was reflected in her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks.

Phil looked at his sister astonished and somewhat reproachful. Her glad laughter and flippant remarks made him feel that his twin was forgetting the terrible fate that menaced him. Over the boy’s devoted head hung a veritable Sword of Damocles, and it was destined to fall as soon as the bank was opened Monday morning. Yet here was Phœbe, merry and eager, joking with Becky and Don as she flitted through the rooms, and seemingly as unconscious of trouble as a dancing sunbeam.

Judith, a little surprised at the girl’s high spirits, kissed her affectionately as she came in to dinner. She thought Phœbe had never looked more lovely than she did to-day. Phil remarked that fact, too. “The Belle of Riverdale,” as she was often called, was really a beautiful girl; yet, those who knew Phœbe best recognized the fact that her chief charm lay not in her fascinating smile, her dainty complexion, nor her magnificent eyes, but in the kindly, sympathetic heart that had never yet failed to respond to the demands of friendship.

After dinner they were all seated on the front lawn in the shade of the big oaks, when Phœbe noticed old Elaine standing motionless in the back yard, grimly watching the group. The girl seized the opportunity to run to her room, grab the money from beneath her pillows and replace the bills in the cupboard back of the mantel and the remainder of the gold beneath the trap in the floor. She acted with breathless haste, not knowing how much time would be allowed her; but she soon found there was no need of hurry. Returning to the lawn she saw that Cousin Judith had gone to the housekeeper and was engaging Elaine in conversation.

“My uncle is better, you say?” asked Miss Eliot.

“I did not say that,” retorted the woman. “I merely stated that he suffers no pain.”

“Is his mind still befogged, as when I last saw him?” continued Judith.

“His mind has never been befogged,” said Elaine, with unnecessary anger. “You will find he is clear-headed enough to defend himself from annoyances, if intruded upon.”

Judith sighed. This creature was absolutely impossible to conciliate. She turned away without further remark and preferred not to see the half sneering, half triumphant leer on Elaine’s pinched features. Phœbe put her arms around the Little Mother and said:

“Never mind, dear. She’s old and unreasonable; but she takes good care of gran’pa, so we needn’t mind her uncivil ways.”

“Koots! I’m half afraid of her,” remarked Becky, making a face at the thin figure of the housekeeper.

“I’m not,” declared Phœbe, laughing at the recollection of her late audacity. “Miss Halliday is nothing more than a favored servant, who has forgotten her proper place. There’s nothing fearsome about her, I’m sure.”

Toward evening the girl’s high spirits began to falter and she wandered about the house in an uneasy mood. Perhaps Phil’s dismal looks – for he could not force his countenance to seem pleasant while his heart was breaking – had something to do with his twin’s growing depression. Even Sue accused Phœbe of being cross when she sent her small sister to bed somewhat earlier than usual.

When all the household had retired except the twins and Judith, they sat on the porch conversing until Miss Eliot noticed for the first time an air of restraint that was unusual. Fearing she might herself be responsible for this she pleaded some letters to be written as an excuse to go to her room, and bade them good night.

“Cheer up, dear,” said Phœbe, when their cousin had gone in. “Didn’t I promise to save you?”

“Yes; but you can’t do that, little sister. No one can save me.”

“There is one way,” announced the girl, decidedly.

Phil sat thinking.

“Yes,” he said; “if Eric would confess, that would end it all. Do you imagine he will?”

“No, indeed.”

“Nor I. I have thought of everything; but the snare is too strong to be broken.”

Phœbe did not reply at once. She sat looking out into the night, lost in thought. Presently she roused herself and whispered:

“Phil, will you take a little walk with me?”

“I don’t mind. I’m not liable to sleep much to-night, so there’s little use in going to bed.”

“Wait for me a moment,” she said.

Phil waited. She soon returned with a bulky newspaper packet partly concealed beneath her cloak.

Together they strolled down the street toward the town. It was after ten o’clock, and on Sunday evening Riverdale was like a deserted village.

“We’re getting to be regular night owls, aren’t we?” asked Phœbe, with a nervous tremor in her voice.

“Yes, indeed. But why are we prowling around town to-night? Wouldn’t it be more pleasant to walk in the lanes?”

“We’re going to the bank,” said the girl.

Phil stopped short to look at her, but the overhanging branches of a tree hid her face. With a sigh he walked on, deciding to let her have her way. But he could think of no good reason for this absurd whim.

When they reached the bank Phœbe said:

“We will go in, Phil. Unlock the door.”

Mechanically he obeyed. Dully be wondered what she was going to do. But it did not matter, and he would soon know.

“Now,” continued the girl, when they were inside, “open the safe.”

“Why, Phœbe!” he gasped, glancing at her fearfully. “You’re not going to – ”

“No; I’m not going to rob Mr. Spaythe. Open the safe, Phil – quick!”

He leaned over and set the combination. Then slowly the heavy door swung open.

Phœbe breathed a sigh of relief. Hastily unwrapping her bundle she placed a bag of gold on one shelf and a thick packet of bank bills on another – in just the places from whence Eric had abstracted the money the night before.

“All right, dear; you may lock the safe now.”

Phil was bewildered. His eyes roamed from his sister’s smiling face to the safe, and back again.

“Wha – what have you done?” he stammered.

“I’ve restored the missing cash. Lock the safe, Phil, before it’s robbed again.”

“Phœbe!”

“Don’t look so wild, dear. Can’t you understand you are saved – that there will be no exposure of a theft to-morrow morning? Lock the safe, and let us go home.”

He could not realize it, even yet. Still dazed and wondering he locked the safe and followed Phœbe into the street. They were halfway home before he asked:

“Where did you find Eric?”

“I haven’t seen Eric,” she replied.

“Then where did the money come from?”

“It’s my secret, Phil; you mustn’t ask.”

“But I must know, Phœbe. Why, it’s – it’s amazing!”

“Seems so, doesn’t it?”

“It’s impossible! Three thousand – ”

“ – Three hundred and ninety dollars,” she interrupted, with a laugh. “It’s all there, dear; all back in the safe.”

“It’s a fortune! Where did you get it?” he persisted.

“Now, Phil, I’ve forbidden you to ask questions, and I mean it,” she declared, very seriously. “It is a secret which I can’t reveal. Not now, anyway.”

“Did Cousin Judith – ”

“It’s no use, dear; I won’t tell.”

He strode along in silence, wondering if it were really true. They were dreadfully poor, he knew, and Cousin Judith’s money was tied up in an annuity. Where could Phœbe obtain three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars in currency? – and on Sunday, too! Suddenly a thought caused him to start.

“You haven’t borrowed it of the Randolphs?” he demanded in a horrified tone.

The suggestion made Phœbe laugh again.

“Guess away!” she said, lightly.

“We would never be able to repay such a loan – not for years and years, if at all,” he said miserably.

“That need not worry you,” she observed. “Why don’t you give it up, Phil? Be content until the time comes when I can tell you everything. It’s the best way. Can’t you trust me – Phœbe – your twin?”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, while the first sense of freedom he had experienced since the robbery swept over him.

“Trust you? Of course I can, my darling!” he said.

CHAPTER XIX
THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR

Phil had a restless night; but he slept a little, nevertheless. His chief source of worry had been removed by his sister’s mysterious action, yet the wonderment of it all remained, carrying with it an intense excitement whenever he thought of the probable outcome of this strange adventure.

On Monday morning he was up bright and early, anxiously awaiting the time to go to work. Phœbe, looking at him with wistful eyes, kissed her brother good-by and said:

“Good luck, Phil. Whatever happens, remember that I, and all who love you, will stand by you to the end.”

But nothing exceptional happened at the bank.

Mr. Boothe, looking a little more pale and worn than usual, arrived at the same time Phil did, and while he was carrying the cash from the safe to his cage, preparatory to counting it, Eric sauntered in and took his seat at the desk.

He gave his fellow clerk a brief nod and looked curiously at Mr. Boothe. Said Phil, attempting to be cordial:

“Back from St. Louis already, Eric?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find Ned Thurber?”

“Oh, Ned’s all right.”

“When did you get home?”

“Six, this morning.”

Usually talkative, Eric seemed determined to be chary of speech on this occasion; but perhaps he was absorbed in watching Boothe count the money, for he never took his eyes off the cashier.

In his usual careful, painstaking manner, Boothe first counted the checks, drafts, and other notes of exchange, checking them off on the tally sheet beside him. Then he began on the currency. As packet after packet of the bank bills was counted and laid aside Eric grew nervous and his breath came in short gasps. He pretended to be bending over his books, but Phil saw the exhibition of nervous fear and was not without a share of excitement himself.

Check!

Eric grew pale and then red. He was astounded. Mr. Boothe rapidly counted the gold contained in the four sacks – positively, there were four, Eric noted with dismay, and there should have been but three. He saw the cashier pick up his pencil, glance at the tally sheet and check the amount as correct.

Eric swayed and almost fell from his stool. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.

“Everything seems to check up all right,” called the cashier from his cage, speaking in a calm voice. “You’ve kept things pretty straight, Eric.”

“Good; very good!” cried a deep voice, and the two clerks were for the first time aware that Mr. Spaythe stood in the open door of his office watching the scene.

“Seems as if you could almost get on without me, sir,” said the cashier, apologetically.

“No,” answered the banker, “your absence caused us all a lot of extra work and worry – especially Phil.” He came around to young Daring’s side, put on his glasses and began a calm but thorough examination of the ledgers. “Feeling better this morning, Mr. Boothe?” he asked, without looking at the man.

“Quite myself again, sir.”

Phil stood aside, for it was evident Mr. Spaythe wished to carefully compare the books. Daring had been obliged to make entries in both his own set and Eric’s during the past few days; but there was little to criticise, he felt, and he welcomed the examination.

Meantime Eric sat as if turned to stone, pale and red by turns, the perspiration oozing from every pore. His eyes, as they fell upon his father, were full of terror; when he looked at Phil it was with suspicion and fear combined. For a moment’s thought had convinced Eric that his theft had been discovered. How, or in what way, he had not the faintest idea. Until now, he had confidently believed he had covered up every trace of the crime with supreme cleverness. Yet in his brief absence someone had detected the robbery and replaced the money in the safe so that Mr. Boothe would find the bank’s accounts correct.

There was only one person able to do this – his father. For it was not to be supposed for an instant that Phil Daring, or any of his friends, could raise so large a sum without recourse to the bank itself.

Then came the thought that if Mr. Spaythe was aware of his son’s embezzlement, someone had betrayed Eric to him. The traitor could be none other than Phil Daring, the one he had naturally expected would be accused of the crime.

Hardly knowing which way to turn or what to do or say, reading condemnation in every face and fearing exposure at any moment, Eric Spaythe was indeed in a pitiable plight. Why was his father inspecting the books so carefully? It could not be that he mistrusted Phil. Was he then looking for those former defalcations of which his son had been guilty? Eric had intended to accuse Phil of those things, when the logical time came. Perhaps Phil knew that, and had saved himself by denouncing Eric.

There was nothing to be learned from Daring’s face. It was grave and serene, as if he had the situation well in hand. Mr. Spaythe seemed stern and vigilant, his practised eye running up and down the entries, observing every item with intelligent care. Boothe was imperturbable as ever and paid no attention to the group in the back room.

Eric writhed on his stool and kept silent. He was fully prepared for the impending denunciation and intended to deny everything and stick to the lie to the last. But no denunciation came.

Mr. Spaythe finished his examination and then turned to Phil with a satisfied nod.

“Daring,” said he, “you have done well – very well indeed, considering your brief experience. I believe you are destined to prove of considerable future value to this bank, and hereafter your salary will be fifteen dollars a week.”

Without a word or a look toward his son he reëntered his office and closed the door. He was still angry with Eric for foolishly making that long and expensive trip to St. Louis for a day’s stay, and moreover he resented the unkind insinuations his son had made about young Daring’s honesty. But Eric attributed his father’s displeasure to entirely different causes.

Phil resumed his work, paying no attention to his companion. Eric waited for a while for him to speak, and then grew savage.

“Think you’ve caught me at it, I suppose?” he growled, with reckless disregard of the fact that he had betrayed himself. The restoration of the money was evidence enough that the cat was out of the bag.

“You are caught, Eric,” was the quiet answer. “There is no need for me to assure you of that.”

Eric glared.

“Where’s the proof?” he demanded, uneasily.

Phil looked up with a smile.

“Has it never occurred to you that money may be marked, and also a record kept of the numbers of bank notes?”

“Oh, that was it, was it?” returned the other, plainly discomfited by the suggestion, which had been hazarded merely to tease him. “Then you’ve been trying to trap me for a long time, it seems. Grateful return for my getting you the job here, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t trapped you at all, Eric. The fault is your own from beginning to end,” said Phil, seriously.

Eric walked to the window and stood looking out. He was trying to understand why his father had not frankly accused him of stealing the money. The banker’s reticence was vastly more terrifying to the boy than prompt exposure and denunciation would have been. Perhaps he had hesitated to let the world know that his only son was a thief. Yes; that must be the explanation. Therefore, Eric was destined to receive his scourging in the private office, and he experienced a distinct sense of relief at this thought, for he could stand any paternal tongue-lashing if his disgrace was but kept from the knowledge of his fellows. Eric’s disgrace would mean to an extent his father’s disgrace. Come to think of it, he had no great cause to worry, in any event. His protection lay in his father’s regard for his own good name.

Following this clue, Eric decided that Phil Daring’s raise of salary was merely a bribe not to expose the secret. But the culprit’s momentary satisfaction in this solution of the problem was promptly dampened when he remembered another of Mr. Spaythe’s characteristics – to let no fault go unpunished. He well knew his father’s stern nature, and shuddered a little as he wondered what punishment would be decreed for so grave an offense.

“What’s the program, Phil?” he inquired, coming back to the desk.

“I don’t know.”

“Not in the gov’nor’s confidence, eh?”

“Not entirely, I imagine.”

Eric stared at him thoughtfully. Strangely enough, Daring had not reproached him or gloated over his downfall. Daring had always been a very decent fellow. Perhaps he would prove a friend, even yet. Eric’s attitude changed from one of defiance to that of entreaty.

“We’ve always been pretty good chums, Phil,” he said, in a hesitating tone. “Tell me what to do, there’s a good fellow.”

Phil reflected.

“You might help yourself in one way,” he suggested.

“What is it?”

“Have you any of that money left?”

Eric nodded, trying to read the other’s solemn face.

“Then I advise you to fix up those little irregularities in the books.”

“What irregularities?”

“That check of Mrs. Randolph’s, for instance. It will be sent to her the first of the month, and she will claim it’s a forgery. Then, there’s that deposit of Martin’s, and several other little things. It would be policy for you to straighten out those tangles at once, Eric, before you are made to do it.”

Eric pondered a while, then drew a sheet of paper toward him and began to figure. He seemed pleased with the results and at once set to work to correct the books. It took him until noon to finish his task, for he had undertaken a delicate matter, and some transactions were difficult to cover up or gloss over.

While Mr. Boothe was at dinner Eric took occasion to make the cash straight, in such a way that it would not arouse the cashier’s suspicion. Phil took no part in the matter and let Eric make restitution in his own way.

“I’ve made good, Phil,” the young culprit whispered, eagerly. “Every customer’s account is now as square as a die, as far as I know, and I’ve charged my own account with some of the withdrawals and credited it with the money I’ve just turned over to the bank.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Phil, greatly relieved. But he spoke coldly, for he knew the banker’s son had acted only from fear, and not because it was the right thing to do. Involuntarily, however, Eric had saved Phil Daring from the possibility of being accused of those dangerous defalcations.