A Perilous Secret | Page 6

heart to Mr. Bartley's office.
But in the short time, little more than an hour and a half, which elapsed
between Hope's first and second visit, some most unexpected and
remarkable events took place.
Bartley came in from his child's dying bed distracted with grief; but
business to him was the air he breathed, and he went to work as usual,
only in a hurried and bitter way unusual to him. He sent out his clerk
Bolton with some bills, and told him sharply not to return without the
money; and whilst Bolton, so-called, was making his toilette in the
lobby, his eye fell on his other clerk, Monckton.
Monckton was poring over the ledger with his head down, the very
picture of a faithful servant absorbed in his master's work.
But appearances are deceitful. He had a small book of his own nestled
between the ledger and his stomach. It was filled with hieroglyphics,
and was his own betting book. As for his brown-study, that was caused
by his owing £100 in the ring, and not knowing how to get it. To be
sure, he could rob Mr. Bartley. He had done it again and again by false
accounts, and even by abstraction of coin, for he had false keys to his
employer's safe, cash-box, drawers, and desk. But in his opinion he had
played this game often enough, and was afraid to venture it again so
soon and on so large a scale.

He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he did not hear Mr. Bartley
come to him; to be sure, he came softly, because of the other clerk, who
was washing his hands and brushing his hair in the lobby.
So Bartley's hand, fell gently, but all in a moment, on Monckton's
shoulder, and they say the shoulder is a sensitive part in conscious
rogues. Anyway, Monckton started violently, and turned from pale to
white, and instinctively clapped both hands over his betting book.
"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