The transaction had an ugly appearance. The money had been placed in the bank by the two men for the express purpose of meeting this check, which he had given to Izzard as a part payment on his stock. Harris knew this perfectly, and had suggested it. Now, how should it happen that he had drawn the money in his own name almost immediately upon his arrival in New York? Could it be that Harris had concluded to steal the money? This the cattle-shipper refused to believe. He had known Harris for years, and knew that he was considered honest, as the world goes. Besides, Harris would not dare to make such a bold move for the purpose of robbery. His name was on the back of the check; there was no apparent attempt to conceal it. No, there could be but one explanation, considered Woodford: Harris had found the market rising and a great opportunity to make a vast sum of money; consequently he had bought more stock and had been compelled to use this money for the purpose of payment. There could be no other explanation, so the cattle-shipper convinced himself. Thomas Woodford was not a man of wavering decisions. When his conclusion was once formed, that was the end of it. He went over to the wash-stand, bathed his face, and turned to leave the room. As he did so, some one rapped on the door; when he opened it, a messenger boy handed him a telegram. He took the message, closed the door, and went over to the window. For a moment the dread of what the little yellow envelope might possibly contain, made the big rough cattle-shipper tremble. Then he dismissed the premonition as an unreasonable fear, and with calm finger opened the message. The telegram was from New York, and contained these few words: "Have been robbed. Everything is lost," and was signed "William Harris." Thomas Woodford staggered as if some one had dealt him a terrible blow in the face. The paper fell from his fingers and fluttered down on the floor. The room appeared to swim round him; his heart thumped violently for a moment, and then seemed to die down in his breast and cease its beating. He sank down in his chair and fell forward on the table, his big body limp under the shock of this awful calamity. It was all perfectly plain to him now. The entire transaction from the beginning to the end had been a deep-laid, cunning plan to rob him. The checking out of the ten thousand dollars was but a small part of it Harris had sold the cattle, and, seeking to keep the money, had simply said that he had been robbed. The story about the probable dissolution of the exporters' combine had been all a lie. He had been the dupe--the easy, willing dupe, of a cunning villain.