The boy glided off the high stool, and vanished. The moment the door was shut I took out my purse, and removing four five-pound notes, laid them on the desk beside the chief of the great house.
“Good gracious, young lady, what do you mean by that?” said Mr Chillingfleet.
“Those four five-pound notes are yours,” I said. “I have brought them back to you.”
“Miss Lindley, you must explain yourself.”
Mr Chillingfleet’s tone was no longer languid in its interest.
Then I gulped down a great lump in my throat, and told the story. It does not matter how I told it. I cannot recall the words I used. I don’t know whether I spoke eloquently or badly. I know I did not cry, but I am firmly convinced that my face was ashy pale, for it felt so queer and stiff and cold.
At last I had finished. The story of the young clerk’s temptation and disgrace was known to his chief. Now I waited for the fiat to go forth. Suppose Mr Chillingfleet refused to receive back the twenty pounds I brought him? Suppose he thought it good for the interests of business that the young thief—the wicked, brazen young thief—should be made an example of?
I gazed into the kind and honourable eyes. I watched with agony the firm, the hard, the almost cruel mouth.
“Oh, sir,” I said, suddenly, “take back the money! Jack’s mother is alive, and perhaps your mother, too, lives, sir. Take back the money, and be merciful, for her sake.”
Mr Chillingfleet shut his eyes twice, very quickly. Then he spoke.