“I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell.”
“All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the scrape, I will.”
“That is to be seen yet,” said Mr Caldwell.
Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip’s face, and his last words were—
“And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. Is that what he says in his letter?”
Philip’s face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question—
“What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!”
“There was no one else, he thought,” said David.
“No one else!” repeated Philip. “Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there was me. I took the money.”
“If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “You had best tell your father about it now,” added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room.