“Where will Harry Gilbert be tried?” asked Philip. “Before Squire Davis. I directed the constable to carry him round there at nine o’clock this morning.” “May I go, too?” “Yes; your testimony will be needed to show that the boy was prowling around our house on the evening in question.” “Very well,” answered Philip, with satisfaction. “I’ll go along with you.” “Do so, my son.” As it was not yet time to go to the office of the justice, Philip stepped out into the yard, where Tom Calder, the stable boy, was washing a carriage. “I guess I’ll tell him the news,” thought Philip. “Tom,” he said, “we’ve discovered who stole the bonds the other night.” “Have you?” asked Tom, with a queer smile. “Yes. Would you like to know who it is?” “Uncommon.” “It’s Harry Gilbert.” Tom Calder pursed up his lips in genuine amazement, and emitted a shrill whistle. “You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “Yes,” said Philip, complacently. “The governor had the house searched—Widow Gilbert’s, of course—and he found the bonds there.” “That beats all I ever heard!” ejaculated Tom. “Oh, it doesn’t surprise me at all!” said Philip, carelessly. “I’ve long suspected Harry Gilbert of being dishonest.” “I don’t believe it, for my part,” said Tom, manfully standing by a boy who, on more than one occasion, had done him a favor. “Harry Gilbert is as honest a boy as there is in town.” “Your opinion isn’t of much importance,” said Philip, in a tone of superiority, “and it won’t save the Gilbert boy from going to State’s prison.” “Do you mean to say the one who took the bonds will have to go to State’s prison?” “Yes; that’s what father says, and he knows a good deal about the law.” “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” said Tom Calder, in a peculiar tone. “When is the trial coming off?” “This morning, at nine o’clock, at the office of Squire Davis.” Tom nodded his head thoughtfully, but only said: “Are you going to be there?” “Yes.” “What time is it now?” “Quarter past eight.” “Somebody else will be there,” said Tom to himself; and Philip left him and went back into the house. CHAPTER XLI — HARRY MANAGES HIS OWN CASE Trial Justice Davis sat in his office. He was a man of sixty, with a keen but not unbenevolent face, looking all the more sagacious, perhaps, because of a pair of gold spectacles which surmounted his nose. He had been apprised of the trial at which he was expected to preside, and he looked surprised and regretful. “I can’t believe that boy is guilty,” he said to himself. “I have always looked upon him as one of the best boys in town.” At nine, the principal parties concerned entered the office. First, Colonel Ross and Philip walked in—Philip with an attempt to be at ease, but with a perceptibly nervous air, notwithstanding.