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228 of a stoic might have been overcome: with trembling haste he proceeded to examine and unfold every separate paper within every niche and corner of his desk, till, entirely stripped of its contents, the search he had made left him in hopeless evidence of the fact. Raising his clasped hands and troubled looks, he exclaimed aloud, "The money here deposited with my own hands, 'tis gone, and how? robbed! Good heavens! and by whom?" Leaning his elbow on the table, and pressing his aching temples with his hands, he ruminated upon his unfortunate loss, his cruel and perverse destiny; but the more he did so, the more confused became his ideas. The Baronet, his friend, a gentleman, a man of rank; one with whom he had so familiarly associated;—better to have presented an open weapon to his bosom, he might then have parried the blow,—than have acted in a manner so mean, hidden, and despicable. How should he seek redress? he had no proofs to bring forward; he had no witness to whom to apply; nor did he know the number of the notes he had lost. Revolting as were such suspicions to his feelings, he could not suppress them.

"Robbed, robbed!" again exclaimed he.

Robert, who had just arrived, supposing he had