Shortly after the office opened on the following day, Simon Moore and John were disagreeably surprised by the entrance of Gilbert. He had found his witness, Tom, the boot-black, and requested him to remain outside, within call.

“What do you want here?” demanded the book-keeper, frowning.

“Has Mr. Sands returned?” asked our hero.

“No, he hasn’t,” replied Moore, with unblushing falsehood.

“I think you must be mistaken,” said Gilbert, composedly; “for I saw him getting on a street-car yesterday.”

“Then if you knew he was at home, why did you ask me?”

Gilbert did not think it necessary to answer this question.

“I will stop and speak to him,” he said.

“No, you won’t,” said Simon Moore, roughly. “I know what you want. You want to make him believe you are innocent.”

“You are right, Mr. Moore. I do wish to convince him of my innocence.”

“I guess you’ve got cheek,” put in John. “Didn’t I find the money that was lost, in your overcoat pocket?”

“Yes.”

“That’s enough, I should say,” said the book-keeper, dexterously availing himself of this admission. “You are a witness, John, that he has confessed the theft.”

“If you twist what I say in that way,” said Gilbert, indignantly, “there is no use in my saying anything.”

“That is true enough. There is no use in your saying anything. Now, I’ve got something more to say. You’ve no business in this office; and the sooner you clear out the better.”

“Yes, the sooner you clear out the better,” chimed in John. “You’ve come here to get away my place; but you’d better give up trying. Mr. Sands is not such a fool as to believe you.”

“Are you going?” demanded the book-keeper, menacingly. “John, put him out.”

John advanced cautiously towards our hero, who smiled unterrified.

“Come, go out!—do you hear?” he said.

“I won’t put you to the trouble of putting me out,” said Gilbert, good-naturedly. “I’ll step out for the present.”

“And go away from here,—do you hear? Don’t you hang around the office.”

Gilbert, however, did not see fit to obey this last order. He waited in the neighborhood for Mr. Sands to arrive.

“He means to make trouble, Cousin Simon,” said John, uneasily.

“He would like to, no doubt,” responded the book-keeper; “but it would be very strange if Mr. Sands believed him against us.”

“Well, I hope it’ll all turn out right,” said John; “but he’s got a lot of cheek—that boy has. I wish you’d had him locked up.”

“It might have been the best plan; but I think we can carry things through. Don’t you put in your oar, or you may spoil the whole thing. Leave it to me.”

“All right, Cousin Simon.”

At the corner of Wall and New Streets Gilbert met Mr. Sands, who had come down-town, in a Broadway stage.

“I see you are on hand,” said the broker. “Have you been to the office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What sort of a reception did you get from Mr. Moore?”

“He ordered me out.”

The broker smiled.

“Perhaps it may be my turn to order out,” he said. “Come back with me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Simon Moore was not over-pleased when he saw Gilbert entering the office with his employer, but he said nothing. He waited to see how the land lay.

“Mr. Moore,” said the broker, “I met Gilbert outside, and have brought him in to talk over the charge which you bring against him.”

“He has been here already,” said Moore, coldly, “and I ordered him out.”

“It appears to me that this is rather summary treatment.”

“I think I have treated him very indulgently. I might have had him arrested for theft, but I didn’t want to be too hard upon him.”

“You seem to take it for granted that he is guilty.”

“He must be. He will himself admit that the missing bill was found in his overcoat pocket; ask him, if you like, sir.”

Mr. Sands turned to Gilbert.

“It is true,” he said.

“That is all that need be said,” said the book-keeper, shrugging his shoulders.

“It does not necessarily follow that he put the bill in himself,” remarked Mr. Sands.

“Who else could have done it?” demanded Moore, triumphantly.

“I will answer that question,” said Gilbert. “John put the money in my pocket, in order to get me into a scrape.”

“Do you hear that, Cousin Simon?” exclaimed John, with virtuous indignation. “I didn’t think Gilbert could be so wicked as to say such things.”

“I expected it,” said Moore, regarding Gilbert maliciously. “A boy that will steal will lie also. Of course he only says it to screen himself.”

Gilbert listened to this outbreak very composedly. He knew that his employer was on his side, and did not think it necessary to contradict it.

“Have you any proof of your statement, Gilbert?” asked Mr. Sands.

“Of course he hasn’t,” said Moore, contemptuously. “It rests upon his word; and that is worth nothing. Ask him if he saw John put the money in his pocket.”

“No, I did not,” answered Gilbert, without waiting for Mr. Sands to put the question.

“I thought not,” said Moore, triumphantly. “You only suspected it.”

“Somebody saw it done,” said Gilbert. “Shall I call him?”

The question was addressed to Mr. Sands, who nodded his head.

Gilbert went to the door, and called Tom.

Tom, the boot-black, shuffled in, with his box strapped to his back.

“Tom,” said Gilbert, “did you, one day, see John—that boy there—putting a bill in my coat-pocket?”

“Yes,” answered Tom, “shure I did; but I thought it was his own, and it was no harm, till you told me how you’d lost your place.”

Mr. Sands put two or three questions, which Tom answered in a straightforward manner. Then he turned to the book-keeper.

“What do you say to this, Mr. Moore?” he asked.

“I say that it is all a lie,” returned the book-keeper, angrily. “How much are you paid for lying?” he demanded, sharply, of the boot-black.

“Not a cent,” said Tom, indignantly; “and it isn’t a lie either, you spalpeen! You knew all about it, too. I saw you lookin’ at him when he did it.”

“I’d like to thrash you, within an inch of your life, you impudent young blackguard!” said Simon Moore, furiously.

“You’d better not try it,” said Tom, boldly.

“I hope, Mr. Sands,” said Moore, turning to the broker, “that you are not going to believe this young ragamuffin against me. It is a pretty state of things, if my word is to be disputed by such as he.”

“Mr. Moore,” said the broker, gravely, “I regret to say that, in this instance, I am forced to believe him rather than you. Wait a moment,”—seeing that Moore was going to interrupt him,—“it is only fair that I should give you my reason. Possibly you will remember one evening when, at an oyster-saloon, you and John concerted this very plot against Gilbert. I was in the next stall, and overheard all you both said. I was not, therefore, surprised to learn, upon my return, under what circumstances Gilbert had been discharged.”

Simon Moore and John looked at each other in silent dismay. Both remembered well the conversation alluded to.

“If I am the object of such suspicion,” blustered Moore, at length, “I don’t think I had better remain in your employ.”

“I approve your decision,” said the broker, gravely.

“I will leave at once, if you say so.”

Just then a young man entered the office.

“You are at liberty to do so,” said Mr. Sands. “I have already engaged this gentleman as your successor.”

“I guess I’ll go, too,” said John.

“You may. Gilbert, you will resume your old place.”

It would be difficult to paint the anger and mortification upon the faces of the two cousins as they left the office.

“This comes from trying to help you, you young loafer,” said Moore, savagely, turning upon John. “But for you I should have kept my place.”

“I’m sure I aint to blame,” said John, whining.

“You are wholly to blame. I shall thrash you some day.”

John thought this rather hard, since the plot was of his cousin’s contriving. I may remark here that months passed before Simon Moore obtained another situation.