Vainly trying to wrench himself from my grasp, the under-secretary stammered out an incoherent denial.
"Let me go!" he said. "I know nothing—you have no right to detain me—let me go!"
"Did you, or did you not, meet Mr. John Dwerrihouse at Blackwater Station? The charge brought against you is either true or false. If true, you will do well to throw yourself upon the mercy of the board, and make full confession of all that you know."
The under-secretary wrung his hands in an agony of helpless terror.
"I was away," he cried. "I was two hundred miles away at the time! I know nothing about it—I have nothing to confess—I am innocent—I call God to witness I am innocent!"
"Two hundred miles away!" echoed the chairman. "What do you mean?"
"I was in Devonshire. I had three weeks' leave of absence—I appeal to Mr. Hunter—Mr. Hunter knows I had three weeks' leave of absence! I was in Devonshire all the time—I can prove I was in Devonshire!"
Seeing him so abject, so incoherent, so wild with apprehension, the directors began to whisper gravely among themselves; while one got quietly up, and called the porter to guard the door.
"What has your being in Devonshire to do with the matter?" said the chairman. "When were you in Devonshire?"
"Mr. Raikes took his leave in September," said the secretary; "about the time when Mr. Dwerrihouse disappeared."