"Yes; it has been a cruel exile. We have been very unfortunate."

 

"Where have you been these last ten years, Simeon?"

 

"For the last eight years in Canada."

 

"And you did not write me?"

 

"No; I feared it would set officers on my track. I have heard from you now and then, indirectly². Have you suffered much?"

 

"It has been a weary time. It would have been easier to bear if I had heard from you."

 

"A letter from Canada would have been sure to attract attention and invite comment. Besides, I had no money to send you. Misfortune has pursued me, and I have only been able to support myself. When I think of the62 probable author of my misfortunes, I own it has made me feel revengeful."

 

"To whom do you refer, Simeon?"

 

"To Albert Marlowe."

 

"What do you mean? How is he responsible for your—misfortune?"

 

"I will tell you. I believe that it was he who stole the bonds, the loss of which was imputed³ to me."

 

"Is it possible that you have any proof of this?" asked Mary Barton eagerly. "The bond that was found in your possession——"

 

"Was placed in my overcoat pocket for the express purpose of throwing suspicion upon me. You remember that it was a bond for five hundred dollars, while the amount stolen was six thousand."

 

"Yes."

 

"Albert and I were both at work in the same establishment. We were on a level, so far as means are concerned."

 

"Yes."

 

"Now he is a rich man," added Simeon Barton significantly.

 

"Yes; he is considered worth thirty thousand dollars."

 

"It was the stolen money that gave him his start, I verily believe."63

 

"He did not start in business for himself for more than a year after—the trouble."

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