“The fact is,” Stephen began again, “I have had the misfortune to lose a pocketbook—no, not a pocketbook, that is scarcely correct, but a paper which I fancied I had put in my pocketbook, and which must have dropped out. It—it was a draft of a little legal document which my lawyer had sent me—of no value, utterly valueless—oh, quite——”
“So I should judge from the calm way in which you accused the first man you met of stealing it,” said Jack, with quiet scorn.
Stephen bit his lip, and a glance of hate and suspicion shot from under his eyelids.
“Pray forgive me, my dear Jack,” he said, pressing his hand to his brow, and sighing. “If you had sat up for so many nights, and were so worn and overwrought, you would have some sympathy with my overstrained nerves. I am much shaken to-night, my dear Jack—very much shaken.”
And indeed he was, for the Savage’s fist was by no means a soft one.
Jack looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the candle toward him.
“You had better go to the house and get some of the servants to help you look for the paper,” he said. “Good-night.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence,” said Stephen, eagerly. “Don’t go—stop a moment, my dear Jack. I—I will walk with you as far as the inn.”
“No, thanks,” said Jack, curtly; then, as a suspicious look gleamed in Stephen’s eyes, he added: “Oh, I see! you are afraid I should pick it up in the road. You had better come.”
Stephen smiled, and laid his hand on Jack’s arm.