Trimmer obeyed his master, ignoring Mrs. Swinton, and lifted the old bag of bones with a jerk that seemed to rattle it. He placed an especially large velvet-covered cushion behind the invalid’s back, straightened the skull-cap so that the tassel should not fall over the eye; then, assuming a stony expression of face, turned to go.
Herresford mumbled and appealed until the door was closed; then, he seemed to recover his courage and his tongue.
“So, you’re here again,” he snapped. “What is it now—what is it now? Am I never to have peace?”
“I have strange news. Dick is alive.”
“Not dead, eh! Humph! That does not surprise 243 me. I expected as much. No man is dead in a war until his body is buried. So, he’s come back, has he?”
“Yes, and that is why I’m here. The bank people will have him arrested.”
There was a pause, which the miser ended by a fit of chuckling and choking laughter that maddened her.
“This is no laughing matter, father. Can’t you see what the position is?”
“Oh, yes, it’s a pretty position—quite a dramatic situation. Boy dead, shamefully accused; boy alive, and to be arrested for his mother’s crime.”
“Father, I’ve thought it all out. There is only one thing to do, and you must do it. You must pay that money to the bank, and compel them to abandon the prosecution by declaring that you made a mistake about the checks—that you really did authorize them.”