Mr. Ronald's patience began to give way. "Come to the facts," he
growled. "Why has Farnaby gone off without a word to anybody? Do you
know that?"

"I know no more than you do," the clerk answered coolly. "Don't fly
into a passion. I have got some facts for you, if you will only give me
time. Turn them over in your own mind, and see what they come to. Three
days ago I was short of postage-stamps, and I went to the office.
Farnaby was there, waiting at the desk where they pay the post-office
orders. There must have been ten or a dozen people with letters,
orders, and what not, between him and me. I got behind him quietly, and
looked over his shoulder. I saw the clerk give him the money for his
post-office order. Five pounds in gold, which I reckoned as they lay on
the counter, and a bank-note besides, which he crumpled up in his hand.
I can't tell you how much it was for; I only know it _was_ a bank-note.
Just ask yourself how a porter on twenty shillings a week (with a
mother who takes in washing, and a father who takes in drink) comes to
have a correspondent who sends him an order for five sovereigns--and a
bank-note, value unknown. Say he's turned betting-man in secret. Very
good. There's the post-office order, in that case, to show that he's
got a run of luck. If he has got a run of luck, tell me this--why does
he leave his place like a thief in the night? He's not a slave; he's
not even an apprentice. When he thinks he can better himself, he has no
earthly need to keep it a secret that he means to leave your service.
He may have met with an accident, to be sure. But that's not _my_
belief. I say he's up to some mischief And now comes the question: What
are we to do?"

Mr. Ronald, listening with his head down, and without interposing a