said Dick, giving him some papers, and then indicated two
different rows of the small concrete blocks. "These marked A were made
from cement in our store; the lot B from some I took from Oliva's stock
on the mole. They were subjected to the same compressive, shearing, and
absorbent tests, and you'll see that there's very little difference in
the results. The quality of standard makes of cement is, no doubt, much
alike, but you wouldn't expect to find that of two different brands
identical. My contention is that the blocks were made from the same
stuff."

Stuyvesant crossed the floor and measured the blocks with a micrometer
gage, after which he filled two of the graduated glass measures and then
weighed the water.

"Well?" he said to Bethune, who had picked up Dick's calculations.

"The figures are right; he's only out in a small decimal."

Stuyvesant took the papers and compared them with a printed form he
produced from his pocket.

"They correspond with the tests the maker claims his stuff will stand,
and we can take it that they're accurate. Still, this doesn't prove that
Oliva stole the cement from us. The particular make is popular on this
coast, and he may have bought a quantity from somebody else. Did you
examine the bags on the mole, Brandon?"

"No," said Dick, "I had to get my samples in the dark. If Oliva bought
the cement, he must have kept it for some time, because the only man in
the town who stocks it sold the last he had three months ago. The next
thing is our storekeeper's tally showing the number of bags delivered to
him. I sat up half the night trying to balance this against what he
handed out and could make nothing of the entries."

"Let me see," said Bethune, and lighted a cigarette when Dick handed him
a book, and a bundle of small, numbered forms. "You can talk, if you
like," he added as he sharpened a pencil.

Dick moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing
apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a
reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on
the table.

"Francois isn't much of a bookkeeper," he remarked. "One or two of the
delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might
have conspired with Oliva. Still, that's against my notion of his
character, and I find he's missed booking stuff that had been given out,
which, of course, wouldn't have suited the other's plans."

"You can generally co