“I would have asked Mr. Woodward for an explanation,” continued the accountant, “but he has been absent yesterday and today.  However, as you will see, no explanation can possibly cover the facts disclosed.  There is a clear case for criminal action against him.”

“I don’t think there will be any action,” said Mary, looking up after a pause.  “I’m sure his father will make good the shortage.”  But when she looked at the total she couldn’t help thinking, “It will be a tight squeeze, though, even for Uncle Stanley.”

Now that it was over, she felt relieved, as though a load had lifted from her mind.  “He’ll never bother Helen again,” she found herself thinking.  “Perhaps I had better telephone Judge Cutler and let him handle it—­”

The judge promised to be down at once, and Mary turned to her mail.  Near the bottom she found a letter addressed in Burdon’s writing.  It was unstamped and had evidently been left at the office.  The date-line simply said “Midnight.”

It was a long letter, some of it clear enough and some of it obscure.  Mary was puzzling over it when Judge Cutler and Hutchins entered.  As far as she could remember, it was the first time that the butler had ever appeared at the factory.

“Anything wrong?” she asked in alarm.

“He was in my office when you telephoned,” said the judge.  “I’ll let him tell his story as he told it to me....  I think I ought to ask you something first, though....  Did any one ever tell you that you had a brother Paul? ...”

“Yes,” said Mary, her heart contracting.

Throughout the recital she sat breathless.  Now and then the colour rose to her cheeks, and more than once the tears came to her eyes, especially when Hutchins’ voice broke, and when he said in tones of pride, “Before we could stop him, Master Paul was over the rail and in the water—­”

More than once Mary looked away to hide her emotion, glancing around the room at her forebears who had never seemed so attentive as then.  “You may well listen,” thought Mary.  “He may have been the black sheep of the family, but you see what he did in the end....”

Hutchins told them about the search which he and Archey had made up and down the banks, aided with a flashlight, climbing, calling, and sometimes all but falling in the stream themselves.  “But it was no use, Miss Mary,” he concluded.  “Master Paul is past all finding, I’m afraid.”

For a long time Mary sat silent, her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Archey is still looking,” said the judge, rising.  “I’ll start another searching party at once.  And telephone the towns below, too.  We are bound to find him if we keep on looking, you know—­”

They found him sooner than they expected, in the grassy basin at the bend of the river, where the high water of the night before had borne him—­in the place where he had loved to dream his dreams of youth and adventure when life was young and the future full of promise.  He was lying on his side, his head on his arm, his face turned to the whispering river, and there perhaps he was dreaming again—­those eternal dreams which only those who have gone to their rest can know.