The return of Job Worth to London was not at all joyous. He sat upon the deck in his ship chair or lay in his bunk drawing darkest pictures of his defeat, as he called it. Nor was there any elation in his feelings when, upon his arrival at the bank, the cashier handed him a check for three thousand pounds, as a reward for the restoration of the fifty thousand pounds. Yes, it was something to be sure; yet not much. There was chagrin in it all, and he continually felt this, as he mingled with his colleagues. To him it was–well–failure. At this time, there was another meeting of the bank directors. Nearly all were present. The cashier presided. Something had happened again. Was it another robbery?