“Hopkins! Oh, Aubrey!”
“Hopkins!” he repeated. “He—he is my right hand, you know, Uncle James. I—I would have staked my life on Hopkins.”
The clergyman pushed a chair up to his nephew.
“Sit down, my dear boy. What is this about Hopkins? I remember him well. Has he——?”
“He has been away for a few days' holiday. He said his sister was ill and he must go to see her. In the early hours of this morning”—Todmarsh's voice grew increasingly husky—“he was arrested with two other men breaking into Sir Thomas Wreford's house, Whistone Hall in the New Forest. I—I can't believe it!” His head fell forward on his hands.
Mrs. Phillimore drew a long breath, and for a moment nobody spoke. Then the rector said slowly:
“My dear boy, I can hardly believe this is true. Is there no possibility of a mistake? A false report or something of that kind?”
Aubrey shook his head.
“No. The telegram came from Wreford Hall Post Office—Hopkins sent it himself to me at the Community House and it was brought to me here.”
“Dear, dear! I wish I could help you. But you must remember, my dear Aubrey, that we workers for others must be prepared to meet trouble and disappointment, ay, even in those of whom we have felt most sure.” The rector laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Pull yourself together, my dear Aubrey. Remember the many signal causes of thankfulness that have been granted to you. The many other lives that you have brightened and saved from shame.”