“Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?”
“The note!” repeated his father. “I got no note from you.”
“David, my man,” whispered Mr Caldwell, “do you mind the word that says, ‘He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?’ The Lord doesna forget.”
The story as they gathered it from Philip’s explanations and exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from C—. He had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to C— without a moment’s delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it.
“And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie,” said Philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done.
“And now the matter lies between him and you,” said his father. “For the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after all.”
But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that.
“And we are just where we were before,” said Mr Caldwell. “But don’t be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this.”
“But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I would have cut the whole concern,” said Philip.
“There would have been much wisdom in that,” said Mr Caldwell dryly. “There is no fear of David Inglis.”