“What makes you think it was Travis?” asked Fosdick.  “He isn’t at home in the daytime.”

“But he was to-day.  He said he had got a bad cold, and had to come home for a clean handkerchief.”

“Did you see him?” asked Dick.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney.  “Bridget was hanging out clothes, and I went to the door to let him in.”

“I wonder if he had a key that would fit our drawer,” said Fosdick.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney.  “The bureaus in the two rooms are just alike.  I got ’em at auction, and most likely the locks is the same.”

“It must have been he,” said Dick, looking towards Fosdick.

“Yes,” said Fosdick, “it looks like it.”

“What’s to be done?  That’s what I’d like to know,” said Dick.  “Of course he’ll say he hasn’t got it; and he won’t be such a fool as to leave it in his room.”

“If he hasn’t been to the bank, it’s all right,” said Fosdick.  “You can go there the first thing to-morrow morning, and stop their paying any money on it.”

“But I can’t get any money on it myself,” said Dick.  “I told Tom Wilkins I’d let him have some more money to-morrow, or his sick mother’ll have to turn out of their lodgin’s.”

“How much money were you going to give him?”

“I gave him three dollars to-day, and was goin’ to give him two dollars to-morrow.”

“I’ve got the money, Dick.  I didn’t go to the bank this morning.”

“All right.  I’ll take it, and pay you back next week.”

“No, Dick; if you’ve given three dollars, you must let me give two.”

“No, Fosdick, I’d rather give the whole.  You know I’ve got more money than you.  No, I haven’t, either,” said Dick, the memory of his loss flashing upon him.  “I thought I was rich this morning, but now I’m in destitoot circumstances.”

“Cheer up, Dick; you’ll get your money back.”

“I hope so,” said our hero, rather ruefully.

The fact was, that our friend Dick was beginning to feel what is so often experienced by men who do business of a more important character and on a larger scale than he, the bitterness of a reverse of circumstances.  With one hundred dollars and over carefully laid away in the savings bank, he had felt quite independent.  Wealth is comparative, and Dick probably felt as rich as many men who are worth a hundred thousand dollars.  He was beginning to feel the advantages of his steady self-denial, and to experience the pleasures of property.  Not that Dick was likely to be unduly attached to money.  Let it be said to his credit that it had never given him so much satisfaction as when it enabled him to help Tom Wilkins in his trouble.