“My exercise, sir.”
“To be sure, to be sure. What's the meaning of this, sir?” and he held up the key. “What have you done, indeed!—you hoped that it was nicely concealed, I dare say. I wonder how you can be so artful.”
“I am sure I don't know any thing about that book,” said Louis, in great agitation.
“Admirably acted,” said Mr. Witworth. “It wouldn't walk here, however, Master Mortimer: some one must have brought it.”
“I am sure I don't know who did—I don't indeed,” said poor Louis, despairingly.
“Perhaps you'll try to make me believe you don't know what it is, and that you never saw the book before,” remarked Mr. Witworth, scornfully.
“I do know what it is, but I never used it, I do assure you, sir, and I did not bring it here. Will you not believe me?”
“It is very likely that I should believe you, is it not? Well, sir, this book goes up with you to-morrow to Dr. Wilkinson, and we shall see how much he will believe of your story. This accounts for your apparent industry lately.” So saying, Mr. Witworth walked off with the book in his hand, leaving Louis in the greatest distress.
“And all my pains are quite lost!” he exclaimed, as he burst into tears. “The doctor is sure not to believe me, and there will be—oh, who could have left it there?”
“Louis, are you coming out this afternoon; what's the matter?” exclaimed the welcome voice of his brother.