Of course Socrates told the story, now familiar to us, and already familiar to his nephew, though he did not suspect that.

Jim struck his forehead, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him.

“Could it be?” he said, slowly, as if to himself; “no, I can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what?” demanded Socrates, impatiently; “if you have any clew, out with it!”

“I hardly like to tell, Uncle Socrates, for it implicates one of the boys.”

“Which?” asked Mr. Smith, eagerly.

“I will tell you, though I don’t like to.  Half an hour since, I was coming upstairs, when I heard a door close, as I thought, and, directly afterward, saw Hector Roscoe hurrying up the stairs to the third floor.  I was going up there myself, and followed him.  Five minutes later he came out of his room, looking nervous and excited.  I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I now think that he entered your room, took the wallet, and then carried it up to his own chamber and secreted it.”

“Hector Roscoe!” repeated Mr. Smith, in amazement.  “I wouldn’t have supposed that he was a thief.”

“Nor I; and perhaps he isn’t.  It might be well, however, to search his room.”

“I will!” answered Socrates, with eagerness, “Come up, James, and you, Mrs. Smith, come up, too!”

The trio went upstairs, and entered poor Hector’s room.  It was not unoccupied, for Ben Platt and Wilkins were there.  They anticipated a visit, and awaited it with curious interest.  They rose to their feet when the distinguished visitors arrived.

“Business of importance brings us here,” said Socrates.  “Platt and Wilkins, you may leave the room.”

The boys exchanged glances, and obeyed.

“Wilkins,” said Ben, when they were in the corridor, “it is just as I thought.  Jim has set a trap for Roscoe.”

“He may get caught himself,” said Wilkins.  “I ain’t oversqueamish, but that is too confounded mean!  Of course you’ll tell all you know?”

“Yes; and I fancy it will rather surprise Mr. Jim.  I wish they had let us stay in there.”

Meanwhile, Jim skillfully directed the search.

“He may have put it under the mattress,” suggested Jim.

Socrates darted to the bed, and lifted up the mattress, but no wallet revealed itself to his searching eyes.

“No; it is not here!” he said, in a tone of disappointment; “the boy may have it about him.  I will send for him.”

“Wait a moment, Uncle Socrates,” said Jim; “there is a pair of pants which I recognize as his.”

Mr. Smith immediately thrust his hand into one of the pockets and drew out the wallet!

“Here it is!” he exclaimed, joyfully.  “Here it is!”

“Then Roscoe is a thief!  I wouldn’t have thought it!” said Jim.

“Nor I. I thought the boy was of too good family to stoop to such a thing.  But now I remember, Mr. Allan Roscoe told me he was only adopted by his brother.  He is, perhaps, the son of a criminal.”