“In spite of the fact that it must be entirely out of date?” Trant pressed. “Probably it was the last of that pattern in this office?” “Of course,” Howell rejoined, still more impatiently. “The others were changed long ago. But what in the world has all this to do with the question whether some one is planning to rob us?” “It has everything to do, Mr. Howell!” Trant leaped to his feet, his eyes flashing with sudden comprehension. “For what you have just told me makes it certain that, as Gordon warned you, one of your clerks is planning to enter your safe at the first opportunity! Gordon knows as little as you or I, at this moment, which of your men it is; but he is as sure of the fact itself as I am, and he has every reason to know that there is no time to lose in detecting the plotter.” “What is that? What is that? Gordon is right?” The banker stared at Trant in confusion, then asserted, skeptically: “You cannot tell that from those papers, Mr. Trant!” “I feel very certain of it indeed, and—just from these papers. And more than that, Mr. Howell, though I shall ask to postpone explaining this until later, I may say from this second paper here,” Trant held up the series of numbers which the cashier had written, “that this indicates to me that it is entirely possible, if not actually probable, that Gordon’s son did not steal the money for the loss of which he was disgraced!” The banker strode up and down the room, excitedly. “Robert Gordon not guilty! I understood, Trant, that your methods were surprising. They are more than that; they are incomprehensible. I cannot imagine how you reach these conclusions. But,” he looked into the psychologist’s eyes, “I see no alternative but to put the matter completely in your hands, and for the present to do whatever you say.” “There is nothing more to be done here now,” said Trant, gathering up the papers, “except to give me Gordon’s home address.” “Five hundred and thirty-seven Leavenworth Street, on the South Side.” “I will come back to-morrow after banking hours. Meanwhile, as Gordon warned you, put an extra guard over the bank to-night. I hope to be able to tell you all that underlies this case when I have been to Gordon’s home this evening, and seen his son, and”—Trant turned away—“that old typewriting machine of his.” He went out, the banker staring after him, perplexed.