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“Well, Paul,” said the father, “have I got down here before you after all, and in spite of your running away last night?”

“No,” the son responded, “I was the first to arrive this morning–luckily.”

“Luckily?” echoed his father. “I suppose that means that you have been able to accomplish your purpose–whatever it was. You didn’t tell me, you know.”

“I’m ready to tell you now, father,” said Paul, “since I have succeeded.”

Walking down the store together, they came to the private office.

As the old book-keeper saw them he started up, and made as if to leave the office.

“Keep your seat, Major,” cried Mr. Wheatcroft, sternly, but not unkindly. “Keep your seat, please.”

Then he turned to Mr. Whittier. “I have something to tell you both,” he said, “and I want the Major here while I tell you. Paul, may I trouble you to see that the door is closed so that we are out of hearing?”

“Certainly,” Paul responded, as he closed the door.

“Well, Wheatcroft,” Mr. Whittier said, “what is all this mystery of yours now?”

The junior partner swung around in his chair and faced Mr. Whittier.

“My mystery?” he cried. “It’s the mystery that puzzled us all, and I’ve solved it.”

“What do you mean?” asked the senior partner.

“What I mean is, that somebody has been opening that safe there in the corner, and reading our private letter-book, and finding out what we were bidding on important contracts. What I mean is, that this man has taken this information, filched from us, and sold it to our competitors, who were not too scrupulous to buy stolen goods!”

“We all suspected this, as you know,” the elder Whittier said; “have you anything new to add to it now?”

“Haven’t I?” returned Mr. Wheatcroft. “I’ve found the man! That’s all!”

“You, too?” ejaculated Paul.

“Who is he?” asked the senior partner.

“Wait a minute,” Mr. Wheatcroft begged. “Don’t be in a hurry and I’ll tell you. Yesterday afternoon, I don’t know what possessed me, but I felt drawn down-town for some reason. I wanted to see if anything was going on down here. I knew we had made that bid Saturday, and I wondered if anybody would try to get it on Sunday. So I came down about four o’clock, and I saw a man sneak out of the front door of this office. I followed him as swiftly as I could and as quietly, for I didn’t want to give the alarm until I knew more. The man did not see me as he turned to go up the steps of the elevated railroad station. At the corner I saw his face.”

“Did you recognize him?” asked Mr. Whittier.

“Yes,” was the answer. “And he did not see me. There were tears rolling down his cheeks, perhaps that’s the reason. This morning I called him in here, and he has finally confessed the whole thing.”

“Who–who is it?” asked Mr. Whittier, dreading to look at the old book-keeper, who had been in the employ of the firm for thirty years and more.

“It is Major Van Zandt!” Mr. Wheatcroft declared.

There was a moment of silence; then the voice of Paul Whittier was heard, saying, “I think there is some mistake!”

“A mistake!” cried Mr. Wheatcroft. “What kind of a mistake?”

“A mistake as to the guilty man,” responded Paul.

“Do you mean that the Major isn’t guilty?” asked Mr. Wheatcroft.

“That’s what I mean,” Paul returned.

“But he has confessed,” Mr. Wheatcroft retorted.

“I can’t help that,” was the response. “He isn’t the man who opened that safe yesterday afternoon at half-past three and took out the letter-book.”

The old book-keeper looked at the young man in frightened amazement.

“I have confessed it,” he said, piteously–“I have confessed it.”

“I know you have, Major,” Paul declared, not unkindly. “And I don’t know why you have, for you were not the man.”

“And if the man who confesses is not the man who did it, who is?” asked Wheatcroft, sarcastically.

“I don’t know who is, although I have my suspicions,” said Paul; “but I have his photograph–taken in the act!”