of his meals, and
one night fear and a sharp premonition of close-pressing disaster laid
cold hands on him; and nine o'clock found him skulking in the great
train shed at the railway station, a ticket to Canada in his pocket, a
goodly sum of the company's money tightly buckled in a safety-belt next
to his skin--all things ready for flight save one, the courage requisite
to the final step-taking.

The following morning the premonition became a certainty. In the
Gordonia mail there was a note from the younger Gordon, directing him to
come to the office of the pipe foundry, bringing the cash-book and
ledger for a year whose number was written out in letters of fire in the
bookkeeper's brain. He went, again lacking the courage either to refuse
or to disappear, and found Gordon waiting for him. There were no
preliminaries.

"Good morning, Dyckman," said the tyrant, pushing aside the papers on
his desk. "You have brought the books? Sit down at that table and open
the ledger at the company's expense account for the year. I wish to make
a few comparisons," and he took a thick packet of papers from a
pigeonhole of the small iron safe behind his chair.

Dyckman was unbuckling the shawl-strap in which he had carried the two
heavy books, but at the significant command he desisted, went swiftly to
the door opening into the stenographer's room, satisfied himself that
there were no listeners, and resumed his chair.

"You have cut out some of the preface, Mr. Gordon; I'll cut out the
remainder," he said, moistening his dry lips. "You have the true record
of the expense account in that package. I'm down and out; what is it
you want?"

The inexorable one at the desk did not keep him in suspense.

"I want a written confession of just what you did, and what you did it
for," was the direct reply. "You'll find Miss Ackerman's type-writer in
the other room; I'll wait while you put it in type."

The bookkeeper's lips were dryer than before, and his tongue was like a
stick in his mouth when he said:

"You're not giving me a show, Mr. Gordon; the poor show a common
murderer would have in any court of law. You are asking me to convict
myself."

Gordon held up the packet of papers.

"Here is your conviction, Mr. Dyckman--the original leaves taken from
those books when you had them re-bound. I need your statement of the
facts for quite another purpose."

"And if I refuse to make it? A cornered rat will fight for his life, Mr.
Gordon