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Now this, if not absolutely deceitful in word, was decidedly so in intent; for Reuben himself had no thought of giving up the affair until be bad obtained some result, and he accordingly made his own arrangements for keeping solitary watch that night, and at a late hour was admitted to the premises by the warehouseman, whom he had taken into his confidence, and of whose good faith he was sure.

He sat undisturbed till the clock struck two, and was beginning to think that his watch would be as quiet as the night before, when he heard a slight noise, as of some one descending the stairs from the upper floor of the building.

“Now, for it,” thought Reuben, feeling about in the dark for a ruler, having found which, he got behind a desk and kept quiet. The door opened, and some one entered. Reuben heard the tread of a man without shoes. The intruder advanced, picked up a match-box from the desk, as Reuben knew by the sound, struck a match, and lighted a gas jet. Keeping him full in view, Reuben then watched him go to the safe, unlock it, bring forth the books, place them on Isaac’s desk, and then deliberately proceed to examine the entries. At this point Reuben advanced boldly and seized the individual by the arm, when—Isaac Jackson awoke, and found himself sitting on his own office stool, clad solely in a long white garment, and with a pen in his hand; while Reuben Barlow stood beside him looking rather grim, and saying,—

“Does’nt thou think thou’d be better in bed, Isaac, than playing these tricks?”

No more passed then; Reuben returned the books to their stronghold, put out the gas, saw Isaac into bed, and went his way; but the next day gave his book-keeper certain advice and warning at considerable length concerning morbid fancies, and heavy suppers. It was with no small difficulty that Isaac nerved himself to face the office for a little time, feeling convinced in his own mind as he did, that every little gathering of the clerks which he chanced to see, was by no means “a fortuitous combination of atoms,” but a meeting for the express purpose of debate respecting the recent mystery and its solution, particulars of which had in some unexplained manner leaked out. He lived for some little time in desperate fear of his nocturnal propensity; but no recurrence ever again troubled him, and he would by this time almost have forgotten it, if it were not for Reuben Barlow’s occasional jocular enquiry, “Barlow Brothers’ Books all right, Isaac?”

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