“Look here, then!”

As he spoke, Ben went to Hector’s pants and drew out the wallet.

Wilkins started in surprise and dismay.

“How did Roscoe come by that?” he asked; “surely he didn’t take it?”

“Of course he didn’t.  You might know Roscoe better.  Didn’t you hear me say just now that Jim brought it here?”

“And put it in Roscoe’s pocket?”

“Yes.”

“In your presence?”

“Yes; only he didn’t know that I was present,” said Platt.

“Where were you?”

“In the closet.  The door was partly open, and I saw everything.”

“What does it all mean?”

“Can’t you see?  It’s Jim’s way of coming up with Roscoe.  You know he threatened that he’d fix him.”

“All I can say is, that it’s a very mean way,” said Wilkins in disgust.

He was not a model boy—­far from it, indeed!—­but he had a sentiment of honor that made him dislike and denounce a conspiracy like this.

“It’s a dirty trick,” he said, warmly.

“I agree with you on that point.”  “What shall we do about it?”

“Lay low, and wait till the whole thing comes out.  When Sock discovers his loss, Jim will be on hand to tell him where his wallet is.  Then we can up and tell all we know.”

“Good!  There’s a jolly row coming!” said Wilkins, smacking his lips.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The missing wallet is found.

Socrates Smith was, ordinarily, so careful of his money, that it was a very remarkable inadvertence to leave it on the bureau.  Nor was it long before he ascertained his loss.  He was sitting at his desk when his wife looked in at the door, and called for a small sum for some domestic expenditure.

With an ill grace—­for Socrates hated to part with his money—­he put his hand into the pocket where he usually kept his wallet.

“Really, Mrs. Smith,” he was saying, “it seems to me you are always wanting money—­why, bless my soul!” and such an expression of consternation and dismay swept over his face, that his wife hurriedly inquired: 

“What is the matter, Mr. Smith?”

“Matter enough!” he gasped.  “My wallet is gone!”

“Gone!” echoed his wife, in alarm.  “Where can you have left it?”

Mr. Smith pressed his hand to his head in painful reflection.

“How much money was there in it, Socrates?” asked his wife.

“Between forty and fifty dollars!” groaned Mr. Smith.  “If I don’t find it, Sophronia, I am a ruined man!”

This was, of course, an exaggeration, but it showed the poignancy of the loser’s regret.

“Can’t you think where you left it?”

Suddenly Mr. Smith’s face lighted up.

“I remember where I left it, now,” he said; “I was up in the chamber an hour since, and, while changing my coat, took out my wallet, and laid it on the bureau.  I’ll go right up and look for it.”