ancing the petty-cash."

"Did you finish it?"

"Nearly."

Mr Barnacle touched the bell, and Doubleday appeared.

"Doubleday, go to Hawkesbury's desk and bring me the petty-cash book and
box."

Hawkesbury turned pale and broke out into a rage.

"What is this for, Mr Barnacle? I am not going to stand it! What
right have you to suspect me?"

"Give Doubleday the key," repeated Mr Barnacle.

"No," exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a white heat. "I will not, I will fetch
the book myself. He doesn't know where to find it. He has no business
to go to my desk."

"Remain where you are, Hawkesbury," said Mr Barnacle.

"What right have you to search my desk? I have private things in it.
Uncle Merrett, are you going to allow this?"

"Mr Barnacle has a perfect right to see the petty-cash account," said
Mr Merrett, looking, however, by no means pleased.

"Why don't you examine his desk?" said Hawkesbury, pointing to me; "he
is the one to suspect, not me. Why don't you search his desk?"

"I have no objection to my desk being searched," said I, feeling a good
deal concerned, however, at the thought of the mess that receptacle was
in.

"It is only fair," said Mr Barnacle. "This gentleman will search both,
I dare say. Doubleday, show this gentleman both desks."

It was a long, uncomfortable interval which ensued, Hawkesbury breaking
out in periodical protests against his desk being examined, and I
wondering where and how to look for help. The partners meanwhile stood
and talked together in a whisper at the window.

At length the gentleman, who, it had dawned on me, was not a bank
official, but a detective, returned with Doubleday, who carried in his
hands a few books and papers.

The petty-cash book and box were first delivered over, and without
examination consigned to the safe.

"These letters were in the same desk," said the detective, laying down
the papers on the table. They appeared to be letters, and in the
address of the top one I instantly recognised the handwriting of the
letter sent to Mary Smith, which I still had in my pocket.

Hawkesbury made an angry grasp at the papers. "They are private
letters," he exclaimed, "give them up! What right have you to touch
them?"

"Hawkesbury," said Mr Barnacle, "in a case like this it is better for
you to submit quietly to what has been done. Nothing in these papers
that does not concern the matter in hand is likely to tell against you.
Is that all, officer?"