The young man's story was very simple. He had held until lately the position of cashier in the firm of Sandford & Sands, stock-brokers. On January 15th a shortage of fifty thousand dollars had been discovered in his books. Mr. Sandford being an intimate friend of the elder Sydenham had declined to prosecute. That was all. "Let us proceed frankly, Mr. Sydenham," said Indiman. "Did you take the money?" "I am beginning to think so," answered the young man, dully. "Come," said Indiman, encouragingly, "that does not sound like a confession of guilt. Don't you know?" Mr. Sydenham shook his head. "I can't tell you," he answered, hopelessly. "My accounts were in perfect order up to January 10th, when I discovered that our bank balance showed a discrepancy of fifty thousand dollars. I covered it over for the time, hoping to find the source of the error. Five days later I told Mr. Sandford. The money was gone, and that was all that I could say." "Let us recall the events of January 9th. Did you make your regular deposit that day, and where?" "We keep our account at the Bank of Commerce. But that afternoon I overlooked a package of bills in large denominations. I sent another messenger over to the bank, but it was after three o'clock and the deposit was refused. The boy brought the money back to me--the package contained fifty thousand dollars." "And then?" "I don't know. I might have locked it up in our own safe or carried it home with me or pitched it out of the window. It is all a blank." "Did you stay at the office later than usual that day?" "Yes; I was busy with some of Mr. Sandford's private affairs, and that delayed me until all the others had gone. I left about five o'clock." "And now who is V. S.? Pardon me, but the question is necessary." "Miss Valentine Sandford--Mr. Sandford's daughter. I was engaged to be married to her." "Since when?" "I had proposed and was waiting for my answer. Then that very day she sent me a telegram. It contained the single word 'yes' and was signed by her initials. It came at the same moment that the messenger brought back the money from the bank." "And it is the same V. S, who sends this message?" asked Indiman, smoothing out the telegraph blank which he held in his hand. The young man took a bundle of papers from his breast-pocket. They were all telegraphic messages, and each was a suggestion towards self-destruction in one form or another. "Suicide's corner" at Niagara, poison, the rope--all couched in language of devilish ingenuity in innuendo, and ending in every instance with the expression, "Is life more than honor? Answer. V. S." "I have had at least one every day," said the young man. "Sometimes two or three. Generally in the morning, but they also come at any hour." "And Miss Sandford?"