There was a pause. The clock struck four. It was almost a home-like sound to them now. This solemn story of the past had unconsciously blunted the sharpness of present troubles.
“Laverack and the watchman, Sixmith,” repeated Gerald, slowly. “Those two. What became of them? Have you ever seen them or had any chance to speak with them?”
“No,” answered Touchtone. “Laverack served his term with the other four, and I dare say has had dozens of other names since, if he still lives in this country or anywhere. Sixmith was discharged from the bank at once, I believe, but father never heard what became of him.”
“Did Mr. Marcy ever try to clear up the matter any further, for your mother’s sake and yours?” asked Gerald.
Touchtone blushed and replied, awkwardly, “Yes—that is, no. He couldn’t try much. There was so little ground to start from,” he added, in apology for his protector; “and Mr. Marcy has done so much for us without it. He seldom speaks of that.”
“But he believes, as you do, that your father wasn’t guilty?” persisted Gerald, raising himself on one elbow and staring hard at Touchtone.
“Yes—yes,” Philip returned slowly, and then more slowly still, “but not so much, I’m afraid, as I do. I tell you, we very seldom talk about it. I—I—don’t know.”
That answer told a plain story. Gerald did not pursue the inquiry.
“Well, if we get out of here and see papa you must tell him every thing. He’s a first-class one to help any body in any thing. You can take my word for it. Between us all we may bring the truth to light—for every body, Mr. Marcy included. I can’t tell you how I thank you for letting me hear all about this. I believed as you do from the first, you know.”