Phil Stark went up to his chamber, and setting the lamp on the bureau, first carefully locked the door, and then removed the paper from the tin box.  He eyed it lovingly, and tried one by one the keys he had in his pocket, but none exactly fitted.

As he was experimenting he thought with a smile of the night clerk from whom he had just parted.

“Stark,” he soliloquized, addressing himself, “you are an old humbug.  You have cleverly duped that unsophisticated young man downstairs.  He looks upon you as a man of unbounded wealth, evidently, while, as a matter of fact, you are almost strapped.  Let me see how much I have got left.”

He took out his wallet, and counted out seven dollars and thirty-eight cents.

“That can hardly be said to constitute wealth,” he reflected, “but it is all I have over and above the contents of this box.  That makes all the difference.  Gibbon is of opinion that there are four thousand dollars in bonds inside, and he expects me to give him half.  Shall I do it?  Not such a fool!  I’ll give him fifteen hundred and keep the balance myself.  That’ll pay him handsomely, and the rest will be a good nestegg for me.  If Gibbon is only half shrewd he will pull the wool over the eyes of that midget of an employer, and retain his place and comfortable salary.  There will be no evidence against him, and he can pose as an innocent man.  Bah! what a lot of humbug there is in the world.  Well, well, Stark, you have your share, no doubt.  Otherwise how would you make a living?  To-morrow I must clear out from Milford, and give it a wide berth in future.  I suppose there will be a great hue-and-cry about the robbery of the safe.  It will be just as well for me to be somewhere else.  I have already given the clerk a good reason for my sudden departure.  Confound it, it’s a great nuisance that I can’t open this box!  I would like to know before I go to bed just how much boodle I have acquired.  Then I can decide how much to give Gibbon.  If I dared I’d keep the whole, but he might make trouble.”

Phil Stark, or Col.  Philip Stark, as he had given his name, had a large supply of keys, but none of them seemed to fit the tin box.

“I am afraid I shall excite suspicion if I sit up any longer,” thought Stark.  “I will go to bed and get up early in the morning.  Then I may succeed better in opening this plaguy box.”

He removed his clothing and got into bed.  The evening had been rather an exciting one, but the excitement was a pleasurable one, for he had succeeded in the plan which he and the bookkeeper had so ingeniously formed and carried out, and here within reach was the rich reward after which they had striven.  Mr. Stark was not troubled with a conscience—­that he had got rid of years ago—­and he was filled with a comfortable consciousness of having retrieved his fortunes when they were on the wane.  So, in a short time he fell asleep, and slept peacefully.  Toward morning, however, he had a disquieting dream.  It seemed to him that he awoke suddenly from slumber and saw Gibbon leaving the room with the tin box under his arm.  He awoke really with beads of perspiration upon his brow—­awoke to see by the sun streaming in at his window that the morning was well advanced, and the tin box was still safe.