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There was uncomfortable silence, which the Scholar broke by a low, long-drawn whistle.

“Boys,” said he, “let’s look inside the safe.”

The three men who held the keys brought them up, the bolts were shot, and the massive door swung back. There was every man’s little sack with his name on it; but somehow or other the sacks looked limper than of yore. Each one was eagerly clutched and examined, and many a groan and not a few curses went up on the still night air as it was found that every sack save Dan’s had been relieved of the more valuable part of its contents.

So much heart-breaking labour under the burning sun thrown away for nothing; the dreary work to commence afresh, almost from the beginning! Had the thief been any ordinary one, the denunciation would have been unbounded; but no one lifted his tongue very loudly against Mary Musgrave. Yet mounted men were despatched on the three trails to bring back the booty if possible, and the rest moved dejectedly toward their old club. The greasy Jew did not attempt to conceal his exultation. He served his customers with his wicked old face glowing with smiles, and when a moment’s breathing-time came he observed:

“We all ‘az hour lettle surbrizes in dis wairld, an’ I most confaiss I am asdonished myself to lairn that Mess Mosgrave is a thief–” But here a crashing among the glassware announced that Tommy Dartmoor had begun shooting with his left hand, and Herr Gustave sputtered out from behind the fingers he held before his face, “Ach Gott! I say nozzing more!”