Mr. Boniface insisted on keeping them all till the following day, when once more they enjoyed the delights of coaching, getting back to London in the cool of the evening, laden with wild roses, hawthorn, and field flowers, which gladdened more than one of their neighbors’ rooms in the model lodgings.

It was not till Wednesday in Whitsun-week that Frithiof found himself in his old place behind the counter, and it took several days before they all got into working order again, for though the holiday had done them good, yet it was not very easy to get back into the routine of business. But by Monday everything was in clockwork order again, and even Mr. Horner, though ready enough at all times to grumble, could find nothing to make a fuss about. It happened that day that Mr. Horner was more in the shop than usual, for Roy had unexpectedly been obliged to go to Paris on business, and it chanced, much to his satisfaction, that, while Mr. Boniface was dining, Sardoni the tenor called to speak about a song. There was nothing that he enjoyed so much as interviewing any well-known singer; he seemed to gain a sort of reflected glory in the process, and Frithiof could hardly help smiling when at the close of the interview they passed through the shop, so comical was the obsequious manner of the little man toward the tall, jolly-looking singer, and so curious the contrast between the excessive politeness of his tone to the visitor, and his curt command, “Open the door, Falck.”

Frithiof opened the door promptly, but the tenor, whose mischievous eyes evidently took in everything that savored of fun, saw plainly enough that the Norseman, with his dignity of manner and nobility of bearing, deemed Mr. Horner as a man beneath contempt.

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Horner,” he exclaimed suddenly, turning back just as he had left the shop; “I quite forgot to ask if you could oblige me with change for a five-pound note. I have tried to get it twice this morning, but change seems to be short.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Mr. Horner deferentially.

And pushing past Frithiof, he himself deposited the note in the till and counted out five sovereigns, which he handed with a bow to Sardoni.

Then, with a friendly “good-day,” the singer went out, and Mr. Horner, rubbing his hands with an air of great satisfaction, retired to Mr. Boniface’s room. The afternoon passed on just as hundreds of afternoons had passed before it, with the usual succession of customers, the usual round of monotonous work; there was nothing to mark it in any way, and no sense of coming evil made itself felt. In the most prosaic manner possible, Frithiof went out for the few minutes’ stroll in the streets which he called tea-time. He was in good spirits, and as he walked along he thought of the days by the sea, and of the boating which he had so much enjoyed, living it all over again in this hot, dusty London, where June was far from delightful. Still, it was something to be out in the open air, to get a few moments of leisure and to stretch one’s legs. He walked along pretty briskly, managing to get some little enjoyment out of his short respite, and this was well; for it was long before he could enjoy anything again in that unconcerned, free-hearted way. Yet nothing warned him of this; quite carelessly he pushed open the double swing-doors and re-entered the shop, glancing with surprise but with no special concern at the little group behind the counter. Mr. Horner was finding fault about something, but that was a very ordinary occurrence. A thin, grave-looking man stood listening attentively, and Mr. Boniface listened too with an expression of great trouble on his face. Looking up, he perceived Frithiof, and with an exclamation of relief came toward him.

“Here is Mr. Falck!” he said; “who no doubt will be able to explain everything satisfactorily. A five-pound note has somehow disappeared from your till this afternoon, Frithiof; do you know anything about it?”

“It was certainly in the till when I last opened it,” said Frithiof; “and that was only a few minutes before I went out.”

“Very possibly,” said Mr. Horner. “The question is whether it was there when you shut it again.”

The tone even more than the words made Frithiof’s blood boil.

“Sir,” he said furiously, “do you dare to insinuate that I—”

But Mr. Boniface laid a hand on his arm and interrupted him.

“Frithiof,” he said, “you know quite well that I should as soon suspect my own son as you. But this note has disappeared in a very extraordinary way, while only you and Darnell were in the shop, and we must do our best to trace it out. I am sure you will help me in this disagreeable business by going through the ordinary form quietly.”

Then, turning to the private detective who had been hastily called in by Mr. Horner, he suggested that they should come to his own room. Mr. Horner shut the door with an air of satisfaction. From the first he had detested the Norwegian, and now was delighted to feel that his dislike was justified. Mr. Boniface, looking utterly miserable, sat down in his arm-chair to await the result of the inquiry, and the two men who lay under suspicion stood before the detective, who with his practiced eye glanced now at one, now at the other, willing if possible to spare the innocent man the indignity of being searched.

Darnell was a rather handsome fellow, with a short dark beard and heavy moustache: he looked a trifle paler than usual, but was quite quiet and collected, perhaps a little upset at the unusual disturbance in the shop where for so long he had worked, yet without the faintest sign of personal uneasiness about him. Beside him stood the tall Norwegian, his fair skin showing all too plainly the burning color that had rushed to his face the instant he knew that he lay actually under suspicion of thieving. Mr. Horner’s words still made him tingle from head to foot, and he could gladly have taken the man by the throat and shaken the breath out of him. For the suspicion, hard enough for any man to bear, was doubly hard to him on account of his nationality. That a Norwegian should be otherwise than strictly honorable was to Frithiof a monstrous idea. He knew well that he and his countrymen in general had plenty of faults, but scrupulous honesty was so ingrained in his Norse nature, that to have the slightest doubt cast upon his honor was to him an intolerable insult. The detective could not, of course, understand this. He was a clever and a conscientious man, but his experience was, after all, limited. He had not traveled in Norway, or studied the character of its people; he did not know that you may leave all your luggage outside an inn in the public highway without the least fear that in the night any one will meddle with it: he did not know that if you give a Norse child a coin equal to sixpence in return for a great bowl of milk, it will refuse with real distress to keep it, because the milk was worth a little less; he had not heard the story of the lost chest of plate, which by good chance was washed up on the Norwegian coast, how the experts examined the crest on the spoons, and after infinite labor and pains succeeded in restoring it to its rightful owner in a far-away southern island. It was, after all, quite natural that he should suspect the man who had colored so deeply, who protested so indignantly against the mere suspicion of guilt, who clearly shrank from the idea of being searched.

“I will examine you first,” said the detective; and Frithiof, seeing that there was no help for it, submitted with haughty composure to the indignity. For an instant even Mr. Horner was shaken in his opinion, there was such an evident consciousness of innocence in the Norwegian’s whole manner and bearing now that the ordeal had actually come.

In solemn silence two pockets were turned inside out. The right-hand waistcoat pocket was apparently empty, but the careful detective turned that inside out too. Suddenly Mr. Boniface started forward with an ejaculation of astonishment.

“I told you so,” cried Mr. Horner vehemently.

And Frithiof, roused to take notice, which before he had not condescended to do, looked down and saw a sight that made his heart stand still.

Carefully pinned to the inside of the pocket was a clean, fresh, five-pound note. He did not speak a word, but just stared at the thing in blank amazement. There was a painful silence. Surely it could be nothing but a bad dream!

He looked at the unconcerned detective, and at Mr. Horner’s excited face, and at Mr. Boniface’s expression of grief and perplexity. It was no dream; it was a most horrible reality—a reality which he was utterly incapable of explaining. With an instinct that there was yet one man present who trusted him, in spite of appearances, he made a step or two toward Mr. Boniface.

“Sir,” he said, in great agitation, “I swear to you that I knew nothing of this. It has astounded me as much as it has surprised you. How it came there I can’t say, but certainly I didn’t put it there.”

Mr. Boniface was silent, and glancing back Frithiof saw on the thin lips of the detective a very expressive smile. The sight almost maddened him. In the shock of the discovery he had turned very pale, now the violence of his wrath made him flush to the roots of his hair.

“If you didn’t put it there, who did?” said Mr. Horner indignantly. “Don’t add to your sin, young man, by falsehood.”

“I have never spoken a falsehood in my life; it is you who lie when you say that I put the note there,” said Frithiof hotly.

“My poor fellow,” said Mr. Boniface, “I am heartily sorry for you, but you must own that appearances are against you.”

“What! you too, sir!” cried Frithiof, his indignation giving place to heartbroken wonder.

The tone went to Mr. Boniface’s heart.

“I think you did it quite unconsciously,” he said. “I am sure you never could have taken it had you known what you were about. You did it in absence of mind—in a fit of temporary aberration. It is, perhaps, a mere result of your illness last summer, and no one would hold you responsible for it.”

A horrible wave of doubt passed over Frithiof. Could this indeed be the explanation? But it was only for a moment. He could not really believe it; he knew that there was no truth in this suggestion of brain disturbance.

“No one in absence of mind could deliberately have pinned the note in,” he said. “Besides my head was perfectly clear, not even aching or tired.”

“Quite so; I am glad that so far you own the truth,” said Mr. Horner. “Make a free confession at once and we will not press the prosecution. You yielded to a sudden temptation, and, as we all know, have special reasons for needing money. Come, confess!”

“You are not bound to incriminate yourself,” said the detective, who, as acting in a private capacity, was not bound to urge the prosecution. “Still, what the gentleman suggests is by far the best course for you to take. There’s not a jury in the land that would not give a verdict against you.”

“I shall certainly not tell a lie to save open disgrace,” said Frithiof. “The jury may say what it likes. God knows I am innocent.”

The tone in which he said the last words made Mr. Boniface look at him more closely. Strangely enough it was in that moment of supreme bitterness, when he fully realized the hopelessness of his position, when one of his employers deemed him a madman and the other a thief, then, when disgrace and ruin and utter misery stared him in the face, that the faint glimpses of the Unseen, which, from time to time, had dawned for him, broadened into full sunlight. For the first time in his life he stood in close personal relationship with the Power in whom he had always vaguely believed, the higher Presence became to him much more real than men surrounding him with their pity and indignation and contempt.

But Mr. Horner was not the sort of man to read faces, much less to read hearts; the very emphasis with which Frithiof had spoken made him more angry.

“Now I know that you are lying!” he cried: “don’t add blasphemy to your crime. You are the most irreligious fellow I ever came across—a man who, to my certain knowledge, never attends any place of public worship, and do you dare to call God to witness for you?”

Nothing but the strong consciousness of this new Presence kept Frithiof from making a sharp retort. But a great calmness had come over him, and his tone might have convinced even Mr. Horner had he not been so full of prejudice. “God knows I am innocent,” he repeated; “and only He can tell how the note got here; I can’t.”

“One word with you, if you please, Mr. Harris,” said Robert Boniface, suddenly pushing back his chair and rising to his feet, as though he could no longer tolerate the discussion.

He led the way back to the shop, where, in low tones, he briefly gave the detective his own opinion of the case. He was sure that Frithiof firmly believed he was telling the truth, but, unable to doubt the evidence of his own senses, he was obliged to take up the plausible theory of temporary aberration. The detective shrugged his shoulders a little, and said it might possibly be so, but the young man seemed to him remarkably clear-headed. However, he accepted his fee and went off, and Mr. Boniface returned sadly enough to his room.

“You can go back to the shop, Darnell,” he said.

The man bowed and withdrew, leaving Frithiof still standing half-bewildered where the detective had left him, the cause of all his misery lying on the writing-table before him, just as fresh and crisp-looking as when it had issued from the Bank of England.

“This has been a sad business, Frithiof,” said Mr. Boniface, leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, and looking with his clear, kindly eyes at the young Norwegian. “But I am convinced that you had no idea what you were doing, and I should not dream of prosecuting you, or discharging you.”

Poor Frithiof was far too much stunned to be able to feel any gratitude for this. Mr. Horner, however, left him no time to reply.

“I think you have taken leave of your senses, Boniface,” he said vehemently. “Save yourself the annoyance of prosecuting, if you like; but it is grossly unfair to the rest of your employees to keep a thief in your house. Not only that, but it is altogether immoral; it is showing special favor to vice; it is admitting a principle which, if allowed, would ruin all business life. If there is one thing noticeable in all successful concerns it is that uncompromising severity is shown to even trifling errors—even to carelessness.”

“My business has hitherto been successful,” said Mr. Boniface quietly, “and I have never gone on that principle, and never will. Why are we to have a law of mercy and rigidly to exclude it from every-day life? But that is the way of the world. It manages, while calling itself Christian, to shirk most of Christ’s commands.”

“I tell you,” said Mr. Horner, who was now in a towering passion, “that it is utterly against the very rules of religion. The fellow is not repentant; he persists in sticking to a lie, and yet you weakly forgive him.”

“If,” said Mr. Boniface quietly, “you knew a little more of Frithiof Falck you would know that it is quite impossible that he could consciously have taken the money. When he took it he was not himself. If he had wanted to hide it—to steal it—why did he actually return to the shop with it in his possession? He might easily have disposed of it while he was out.”

“If that is your ground, then I object to having a man on my premises who is afflicted with kleptomania. But it is not so. The fellow is as long-headed and quick-witted as any one I know; he has managed to hoodwink you, but from the first I saw through him, and knew him to be a designing—”

“Sir,” broke in Frithiof, turning to Mr. Boniface—his bewildered consternation changing now to passionate earnestness—“this is more than I can endure. For God’s sake call back the detective, examine further into this mystery; there must be some explanation!”

“How can any man examine further?” said Mr. Boniface sadly. “The note is missed, and is actually found upon you. The only possible explanation is that you were not yourself when you took it.”

“Then the least you can do is to dismiss him,” resumed Mr. Horner. But Mr. Boniface interrupted him very sharply.

“You will please remember, James, that you are in no way concerned with the engagement or dismissal of those employed in this house. That is entirely my affair, as is set forth in our deed of partnership.”

“Which partnership will need renewing in another six months,” said Mr. Horner, growing red with anger. “And I give you fair warning that, if this dishonest fellow is kept on, I shall then withdraw my capital and retire from the business.”

With this Parthian shot he went out, banging the door behind him.

Frithiof had borne in silence all the taunts and insults showered on him; but when he found himself alone with the man to whom he owed so much, he very nearly broke down altogether. “Sir,” he said, trying in vain to govern his voice, “you have been very good to me; but it will be best that I should go.”

“I would not have you leave for the world,” said Mr. Boniface. “Remember that your sisters are dependent on you. You must think first of them.”

“No,” said Frithiof firmly; “I must first think of what I owe to you. It would be intolerable to me to feel that I had brought any loss on you through Mr. Horner’s anger. I must go.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Boniface. “I cannot hear of such a thing. Why, how do you think you would get another situation with this mystery still hanging over you? I, who know you so well, am convinced of your perfect freedom from blame. But strangers could not possibly be convinced of it.”

Frithiof was silent; he thought of Sigrid and Swanhild suffering through his trouble, he remembered his terrible search for work when he first came to London, and he realized that it was chiefly his own pride that prompted him never to return to the shop. After all, what a prospect it was! With one partner deeming him a thief and the other forced to say that he must be subject to a form of insanity; with the men employed in the shop all ready to deem him a dishonest foreigner! How was he to bear such a terrible position? Yet bear it he must; nay, he must be thankful for the chance of being allowed to bear it.

“If you are indeed willing that I should stay,” he said, at length, “then I will stay. But your theory—the theory that makes you willing still to trust me—is mistaken. I know that there is not a minute in this day when my head has not been perfectly clear.”

“My dear fellow, you must allow me to keep what theory I please. There is no other explanation than this, and you would be wisest if you accepted it yourself.”

“That is impossible,” said Frithiof sadly.

“It is equally impossible that I can doubt the evidence of my own senses. The note was there, and you can’t possibly explain its presence. How is it possible that Darnell could have crossed over to your till, taken out the note and pinned it in your pocket? Besides, what motive could he have for doing such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Frithiof; “yet I shall swear to my dying day that I never did it myself.”

“Well, there is no use in arguing the point,” said Robert Boniface wearily. “It is enough for me that I can account to myself for what must otherwise be an extraordinary mystery. You had better go back to your work now, and do not worry over the affair. Remember that I do not hold you responsible for what has happened.”

After this of course nothing more could be said. Frithiof left the room feeling years older than when he had entered it, and with a heavy heart took that first miserable plunge into the outer world—the world where he must now expect to meet with suspicious looks and cold dislike.