Gerard broke into his tale without ceremony, baldly, stupidly, incoherently, as he felt. Audrey listened mutely, sitting on a sofa, very upright, clasping her hands.
Mr. Candover, who remained standing as Gerard did, heard the story with deep attention, but without the amazement and distress they had expected. When Gerard paused, Mr. Candover pulled aside a heavy portière, went into the next room, and returned with a spirit decanter and a glass.
“Drink that,” he said, as he poured out a wine-glassful of brandy. “You’re shaken, upset, not yourself.”
Gerard obeyed, swallowed the brandy in gulps, frightened beyond measure at the way in which his story had been received. Audrey tapped her foot impatiently.
“Well, what do you think?” she said.
“I think,” said he, “that you have no need to worry yourselves about this. This Sir Richmond is a very old man, and is, as you admit, full of crotchets. My own idea is that the cheques were genuine, and that he has forgotten all about them and who he gave them to. If I’m right, it will only take a few days to find out the truth, and to trace the money to the people to whom he’s given it. Secretaries of real charities, or charitable impostors, very likely.”
“I never thought of that!” cried Gerard, with sudden relief.
Audrey shook her head.
“The cheques were not all together,” said she. “They were torn out of different parts of the book. And he wouldn’t forget all three, you know.”
Gerard’s face fell again. Mr. Candover filled up the glass again; but Audrey, rising quickly from her seat, shook her head and gently checked her husband’s hand.