"I’ve a good mind to cut the whole concern," said he, "make a clean breast of it to the gov’nor, and ask him to give me a fresh start. I really believe he would do it." Then he turned to his book again, but it was useless trying to follow the fortunes of the hero; he was thinking all the time what a fool he had been in preferring Curly Peters to Dick Boden. "The Angel’s a little brick," he said to himself. "He’s stuck to me like a leech, though I’ve snubbed him awfully. Never mind, Dicky; I’ll make up for it, if you’ll let me." Presently he closed the book, got down from the desk, and went to the door, muttering, "I wish the gov’nor would make haste." He little guessed the shame and agony which Mr. Broad’s return would cause him. *CHAPTER XII.* *WHERE IS THE MISSING MONEY?* "Hullo, Hartland! tired of waiting?" "Rather, sir. I thought I would come outside for a breath of fresh air." "Ah! Everything all right?" "Yes, sir." "Any one been here?" "Only Johnson." Johnson was the boy who did the evening round. "Just so.—Come inside, Farrant, will you?—Turn up the gas, Hartland. I want you to stay a few minutes longer." "Yes, sir," replied Jim, who was getting his hat. He thought his employer’s manner a trifle strange, and rather wondered why Mr. Farrant, who was a frequent visitor, remained standing just inside the door. However, he turned the gas on full and waited. "Sure no one has been here?" repeated the stationer. "Quite sure, sir," answered Jim, who thought it was a very odd question. "Then you haven’t sold anything, or given change?" "No," said Jim, who was beginning to feel a trifle uneasy, though he scarcely knew why. "Hum," said his master; "that’s satisfactory in one sense, at least. It leaves no room for mistakes." And going round the counter he opened the till. One glance was sufficient, and in a loud voice he added, "Lock the door, Farrant, and bring me the key.—Hartland, come here." "If he’s guilty, he’s a good actor," thought Mr. Farrant, who was watching the puzzled look on the boy’s face. "Count the money in the till, Hartland—it won’t take a century to do," said Mr. Broad, who intended to be sarcastic. "Fourpence ha’penny, sir," said Jim promptly. Without a word the stationer drew a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and laid it on the table. On the top of the page was a circle with a star in the centre, drawn in ink. Underneath was written, "One florin, 1884. One shilling, 1885. One sixpence, 1861. Sevenpence ha’penny in coppers. Silver all marked as above." "That," said Mr. Broad, speaking very slowly and gravely, "is the amount of money in the till when I left the shop. Here"—pointing to the few coppers—"is fourpence ha’penny. Where is the rest?"