A Perilous Secret. Charles Reade Reade

hostile voice behind him. He turned round, and there was Mr. Bartley seated at his own table. Young Clifford walked smartly to the other side of the table, determined this should be his last day in that shop.

      "There are the payments," said he.

      Bartley inspected them.

      "About one in five," said he, dryly.

      "Thereabouts," was the reply. (Consummate indifference.)

      "You can't have pressed them much."

      "Well, I am not good at dunning."

      "What are you good at?"

      "Should be puzzled to say."

      "You are not fit for trade."

      "That is the highest compliment was ever paid me."

      "Oh, you are impertinent as well as incompetent, are you? Then take a week's warning, Mr. Bolton."

      "Five minutes would suit me better, Mr. Bartley."

      "Oh! indeed! Say one hour."

      "All right, sir; just time for a city clerk's luncheon—glass of bitter, sandwich, peep at Punch, cigarette, and a chat with the bar-maid."

      Mr. Walter Clifford was a gentleman, but we must do him the justice to say that in this interview with his employer he was a very impertinent one, not only in words, but in the delivery thereof. Bartley, however, thought this impertinence was put on, and that he had grave reasons for being in a hurry. He took down the numbers of the notes Clifford had given him, and looked very grave and suspicious all the time.

      Then he locked up the notes in the safe, and just then Hope opened the door of the little office and looked in.

      "At last," said Bartley.

      "Well, sir," said Hope, "I have only been half an hour, and I have changed my clothes and stood witness to a marriage. She begged me so hard: I was at the door. Such a beautiful girl! I could not take my eyes off her."

      "The child?" said Bartley, with natural impatience.

      "I have hidden her in the yard."

      "Bring her this moment, while the clerks are out."

      Hope hurried out, and soon returned with his child, wrapped up in a nice warm shawl he had bought her with Bartley's money.

      Bartley took the child from him, looked at her face, and said, "Little darling, I shall love her as my own;" then he begged Hope to sit down in the lobby till he should call him and introduce him to his clerks. "One of them is a thief, I'm afraid."

      He took the child inside, and gave her to his confederate, the nurse.

      "Dear me," thought Hope, "only two clerks, and one of them dishonest. I hope it is not that good-natured boy. Oh no! impossible."

      And now Bartley returned, and at the same time Monckton came briskly in through the little office.

      At sight of him Bartley said, "Oh, Monckton, I gave that fellow Bolton a week's notice. But he insists on going directly," Monckton replied, slyly, that he was sorry to hear that.

      "Suspicious? Eh?" said Bartley.

      "So suspicious that if I were you—Indeed, Mr. Bartley, I think, in justice to me, the matter ought to be cleared to the bottom."

      "You are right," said Bartley: "I'll have him searched before he goes.

       Fetch me a detective at once."

      Bartley then wrote a line upon his card, and handed it to Monckton, directing him to lose no time. He then rushed out of the house with an air of virtuous indignation, and went to make some delicate arrangements to carry out a fraud, which, begging his pardon, was as felonious, though not so prosaic, as the one he suspected his young clerk of. Monckton was at first a little taken aback by the suddenness of all this; but he was too clear-headed to be long at fault. The matter was brought to a point. Well, he must shoot flying.

      In a moment he was at the safe, whipped out a bunch of false keys, opened the safe, took out the cash-box, and swept all the gold it contained into his own pockets, and took possession of the notes. Then he locked up the cash-box again, restored it to the safe, locked that, and sat down at Bartley's table. He ran over the notes with feverish fingers, and then took the precaution to examine Bartley's day-book. His caution was rewarded—he found that the notes Bolton had brought in were numbered. He instantly made two parcels—clapped the unnumbered notes into his pocket. The numbered ones he took in his hand into the lobby. Now this lobby must be shortly described. First there was a door with a glass window, but the window had dark blue gauze fixed to it, so that nobody could see into the lobby from the office; but a person in the lobby, by putting his eye close to the gauze, could see into the office in a filmy sort of way. This door opened on a lavatory, and there were also pegs on which the clerks hung their overcoats. Then there was a swing-door leading direct to the street, and sideways into a small room indispensable to every office.

      Monckton entered this lobby, and inserted the numbered notes into young Clifford's coat, and the false keys into his bag. Then he whipped back hastily into the office, with his craven face full of fiendish triumph.

      He started for the detective. But it was bitter cold, and he returned to the lobby for his own overcoat. As he opened the lobby door the swing-door moved, or he thought so; he darted to it and opened it, but saw nobody, Hope having whipped behind the open door of the little room. Monckton then put on his overcoat, and went for the detective.

      He met Clifford at the door, and wore an insolent grin of defiance, for which, if they had not passed each other rapidly, he would very likely have been knocked down. As it was, Walter Clifford entered the office flushed with wrath, and eager to leave behind him the mortifications and humiliations he had endured.

      He went to his own little desk and tore up Lucy Mailer's letters, and his heart turned toward home. He went into the lobby, and, feeling hot, which was no wonder, bundled his office overcoat and his brush and comb into his bag. He returned to the office for his penknife, and was going out all in a hurry, when Mr. Bartley met him.

      Bartley looked rather stern, and said, "A word with you, sir."

      "Certainly, sir," said the young man, stiffly.

      Mr. Bartley sat down at his table and fixed his eyes upon the young man with a very peculiar look.

      "You seem in a very great hurry to go."

      "Well, I am."

      "You have not even demanded your salary up to date."

      "Excuse the oversight; I was not made for business, you know."

      "There is something more to settle besides your salary."

      "Premium for good conduct?"

      "No, sir. Mr. Bolton, you will find this no jesting matter. There are defalcations in the accounts, sir."

      The young man turned serious at once. "I am sorry to hear that, sir," said he, with proper feeling.

      Bartley eyed him still more severely. "And even cash abstracted."

      "Good heavens!" said the young man, answering his eyes rather than his words. "Why, surely you can't suspect me?"

      Bartley answered, sternly, "I know I have been robbed, and so I suspect everybody whose conduct is suspicious."

      This was too much for a Clifford to bear. He turned on him like a lion.

       "Your suspicions disgrace the trader who entertains them, not the

       gentleman they wrong. You are too old for me to give you a thrashing, so

       I won't stay here any longer to be insulted."

      He snatched up his bag and was marching off, when the door opened, and

       Monckton with a detective confronted him.

      "No," roared