He drew near to them, evidently deeply agitated.
"I am glad to find you here, Miss Hastings," he said; "I am in trouble. Nay, Pauline, do not go; my troubles should be yours."
For the girl had risen with an air of proud weariness, intending to leave them together. At his words—the kindest he had spoken to her for some time—she took her seat again; but the haughty, listless manner did not change.
"I am nearly sixty years of age," said Sir Oswald, "and this is the first time such a trouble has come to me. Miss Hastings, do you remember that conversation of ours last night, over that roll of notes in the ebony box?"
"I remember it perfectly, Sir Oswald."
"I went this morning to take them from the box, to take their numbers and send them to the bank, and I could not find them—they were gone."
"Gone!" repeated Miss Hastings. "It is impossible! You must be mistaken; you must have overlooked them. What did they amount to?"
"Exactly one thousand pounds," he replied. "I cannot understand it. You saw me replace the notes in the box?"
"I did; I watched you. You placed them in one corner. I could put my finger on the place," said Miss Hastings.
"I locked the box and carried it with my own hands to my study. I placed it in the drawer of my writing-table, and locked that. I never parted with my keys to any one; as is my invariable rule, I placed them under my pillow. I slept soundly all night, and when I woke I found them there. As I tell you I have been to the box, and the notes are gone. I cannot understand it, for I do not see any indication of a theft, and yet I have been robbed."