“You see what?” old Simon demanded, fiercely. “Don't you begin shifting here and there, and keeping things from me. I want to know what's took place, and I _will!_ You and I have always got on harmoniously, but I don't like your shillyshallying whenever that boy's name is mentioned. The other day, when I sent for the sheriff--well, you happened to be right in stopping me _that time_, I'll admit, but I want to know what you think Bailey Thornton meant by what he said. Do you know?” The clerk looked down. His face was quite grave and rigid. “Mr. Walton,” he faltered, “I don't like to carry tales about matters which don't concern me, and when a nasty report gets in the air I try to keep from having anything to do with it.” “I'm talking to you about _business_ now!” Old Simon raised his voice to a shrill cry, which, had it not stranded in his throat, would have reached the adjoining room. “The report touches on my affairs here in this house, and if you don't tell me, if you don't aid me with whatever knowledge you may have run across, you can draw your pay and quit.” Lassiter saw the utter futility of remaining silent longer, and with a desperate look on his face he answered: “I didn't want to make the poor boy's case any worse, Mr. Walton, and so I hoped it would turn out untrue before it got to you; but they say the girl admits the whole thing. The minister of the church where she plays the organ told me it was true.” “Girl? What girl?” the banker gasped. “Why do you take all day to get at a thing?” Then, as Lassiter told the story which was on every tongue, old Simon stared, his mouth falling open and his unlighted cigar seesawing between his jagged stumps of teeth. “So you are plumb sure it wasn't the money that Thornton was talking about!” he exclaimed, with a deep breath of relief.