“Tell me what you want me to do,” said Gibbon, desperately.

“Tell me first whether your safe contains much of value.”

“We keep a line of deposit with the Milford Bank.”

“Do you mean to say that nothing of value is left in the safe overnight?” asked Stark, disappointed.

“There is a box of government bonds usually kept there,” the bookkeeper admitted, reluctantly.

“Ah, that’s good!” returned Stark, rubbing his hands.  “Do you know how much they amount to?”

“I think there are about four thousand dollars.”

“Good!  We must have those bonds, Gibbon.”

CHAPTER XXII.

Mr. Stark is recognized.

Phil Stark was resolved not to release his hold upon his old acquaintance.  During the day he spent his time in lounging about the town, but in the evening he invariably fetched up at the bookkeeper’s modest home.  His attentions were evidently not welcome to Mr. Gibbon, who daily grew more and more nervous and irritable, and had the appearance of a man whom something disquieted.

Leonard watched the growing intimacy with curiosity.  He was a sharp boy, and he felt convinced that there was something between his uncle and the stranger.  There was no chance for him to overhear any conversation, for he was always sent out of the way when the two were closeted together.  He still met Mr. Stark outside, and played billiards with him frequently.  Once he tried to extract some information from Stark.

“You’ve known my uncle a good while,” he said, in a tone of assumed indifference.

“Yes, a good many years,” answered Stark, as he made a carom.

“Were you in business together?”

“Not exactly, but we may be some time,” returned Stark, with a significant smile.

“Here?”

“Well, that isn’t decided.”

“Where did you first meet Uncle Julius?”

“The kid’s growing curious,” said Stark to himself.  “Does he think he can pull wool over the eyes of Phil Stark?  If he does, he thinks a good deal too highly of himself.  I will answer his questions to suit myself.”

“Why don’t you ask your uncle that?”

“I did,” said Leonard, “but he snapped me up, and told me to mind my own business.  He is getting terribly cross lately.”

“It’s his stomach, I presume,” said Stark, urbanely.  “He is a confirmed dyspeptic—­that’s what’s the matter with him.  Now; I’ve got the digestion of an ox.  Nothing ever troubles me, and the result is that I am as calm and good-natured as a May morning.”

“Don’t you ever get riled, Mr. Stark?” asked Leonard, laughing.

“Well, hardly ever.  Sometimes when I am asked fool questions by one who seems to be prying into what is none of his business, I get wrathy, and when I’m roused look out!”

He glanced meaningly at Leonard, and the boy understood that the words conveyed a warning and a menace.