Wentworth's face became ashen, his knees trembled, and he gasped for breath. Presently, however, he looked Mr. Vaughan squarely in the eye, and exclaimed, "Mr. Vaughan, in spite of what we see, and what you doubtless think, I do not know how the bonds came there." The president did not reply. He tried the keys of the others' desks in Wentworth's lock, and neither would fit. "Mr. Hendrix, you will call an officer; my duty is plain; I cannot evade it." As the cashier went out of the door, Mr. Vaughan turned to Wentworth, who had sunk into a chair, covering his face with his hands, and said: "Frank, I could not feel much worse if this had been against my own boy Will. Your father was a director of this bank, and my friend for years. It is a mercy that he did not live to see this day." Wentworth made no answer; the power of speech appeared to have forsaken him. He did not lift his head nor utter a sound until Hendrix appeared with an officer. Mr. Vaughan explained the situation, and Frank was led away in custody. Consternation fell upon Frank's friends and acquaintances, for the evidence was so overwhelming that his simple denial of any knowledge of the matter had no weight with the majority. His mother and sister, together with the members of the camera club, formed a small minority who believed him innocent. Will Vaughan was untiring in his efforts to console Mrs. Wentworth and her daughter Alice, and did his best to keep Frank's spirits up. What could he do, however, to stem the tide of public opinion? Again and again he besought Frank to discover some tangible clew to the robbery. Frank had racked his brain in the effort to do so, without avail. Tom Wetherby returned to his home in New York early on the morning of the day following the storm. He knew nothing of the robbery until weeks afterwards, when a long letter from Will Vaughan arrived, detailing the terrible plight of Wentworth, and rehearsing all the circumstances. "Too bad! too bad!" muttered Tom, as he finished the letter. "I don't believe Wentworth guilty any more than Will does. His face is as honest and open as the day." Will's letter called the lightning plates taken at Whitonville to mind, and he determined to do so now; accordingly he went up to his dark-room and was soon as busy as a bee. One after another the plates were developed, fixed, and washed, until plate-holder No. 7 was reached. Tom hesitated as he drew the slide and removed the plate from the holder. "Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed, "what's the use of bothering with this one?" for he remembered with a smile the wild grab for the camera and the dazzling flash that came before he could straighten the tripod. "I don't suppose there's anything on it--but here goes, for fun, anyway!" He popped it into the tray, poured the developer over it, and awaited results. After a while the image began to show, and little by little the detail came out.