Hugh sat gazing at the open ledger in bewilderment. “It—it,” he stammered—“it seems to be my handwriting—but”—he was not stammering now—“I swear I never wrote it.”
“I believe you, Hugh,” Stephen said simply.
Bransby said sternly—but not altogether without a subcurrent of hope in his tired voice, “Besides you, only Stephen and Grant had access to that ledger. Will you accuse either of them of making these alterations?”
Hugh laughed. “Of course not. Old Stephen and Grant—why, you know, sir, that that’s absurd. But what have I ever done that you should think me capable of being a thief?”
The old man shook his head. But Stephen answered, his hand on Hugh’s shoulder, “Nothing, Hugh, nothing! You’ve known my brother always, sir”—turning to their uncle, speaking with passionate earnestness. “You know he’s not a thief. If he has been a bit wild—it was only the wildness of youth.” There was anxious entreaty in face and in voice, and the face was very white and drawn. Of the four Stephen Pryde unmistakably was not suffering the least.
But Bransby was despairingly relentless now. “While he was at the office he was gambling—he borrowed from money-lenders.”
“It isn’t true,” cried Stephen hotly.
Bransby swung to his younger nephew. “Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Hugh!” the elder brother said in quick horror.