better be coming, too." Remsen had
reached the door when he heard "Mr. Remsen!" in a desperate voice
behind him. He turned, and saw Bixby standing uncertainly at one end
of the desk, his hand still on his ledger, his uneven shoulders
drooping forward and his head hanging as if he were seasick. Remsen
came back and stood at the other end of the long desk. It was too
dark to see Bixby's face clearly.

"What is it, Bixby?"

"Mr. Remsen, five years ago, just before I was married, I falsified
the books a thousand dollars, and I used the money." Percy leaned
forward against his desk, which took him just across the chest.

"What's that, Bixby?" Young Remsen spoke in a tone of polite
surprise. He felt painfully embarrassed.

"Yes, sir. I thought I'd get it all paid back before this. I've put
back three hundred, but the books are still seven hundred out of
true. I've played the shortages about from account to account these
five years, but an expert would find 'em in twenty-four hours."

"I don't just understand how--" Oliver stopped and shook his head.

"I held it out of the Western remittances, Mr. Remsen. They were
coming in heavy just then. I was up against it. I hadn't saved
anything to marry on, and my wife thought I was getting more money
than I was. Since we've been married, I've never had the nerve to
tell her. I could have paid it all back if it hadn't been for the
unforeseen expenses."

Remsen sighed.

"Being married is largely unforeseen expenses, Percy. There's only
one way to fix this up: I'll give you seven hundred dollars in cash
to-morrow, and you can give me your personal note, with the
understanding that I hold ten dollars a week out of your pay-check
until it is paid. I think you ought to tell your wife exactly how
you are fixed, though. You can't expect her to help you much when
she doesn't know."

* * * * *

That night Mrs. Bixby was sitting in their flat, waiting for her
husband. She was dressed for a bridge party, and often looked with
impatience from her paper to the Mission clock, as big as a coffin
and with nothing but two weights dangling in its hollow framework.
Percy had been loath to buy the clock when they got their furniture,
and he had hated it ever since. Stella had changed very little since
she came into the flat a bride. Then she wore her hair in a
Floradora pompadour; now she wore it hooded close about her head
like a scarf, in a rather smeary man