“I am very glad it is all right, sir,” said David, quietly.
“I should like to know one thing,” said Philip. “How came Frank to write to me? He must have thought I was the thief—the young rascal. Did you think so, Davie?”
“No,” said David, “I never thought you took it. I don’t know what Frank thought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one,” added David, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Well! never mind. I’ll sift that matter by and by. Come up to the house with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have had about this business. Come home with me to-night.”
“No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not to blame.”
“Yes, he was to blame,” said Mr Oswald. “It was a very unbusiness-like way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned.”
“It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, if you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few days.”
Philip opened his eyes.
“I am afraid I could not fill David’s place in the office,” said he.
“I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and we would have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether you take his place or no.”