"Charles Cleveland."
"What—is he not come yet?" returned Mr. Grubb, whose thoughts had been elsewhere.
"Not yet. I don't think he means to come."
To be late, or in any other way inattentive to his duties, had not been one of Charley's sins. Therefore his absence was the more remarkable. Mr. Grubb started for Blackheath, almost endorsing Mr. Howard's opinion that the delinquent had embarked with his brother for India; or for some other place not speedily accessible to officers of justice.
Twelve o'clock was striking by St. Paul's when Charley bustled in; hot, and out of breath. He was told that Mr. Howard wanted him.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for being so late," he panted, addressing himself to that gentleman, when he reached his private room, "especially after my holiday of yesterday. I went early this morning to Woolwich, and on board ship with my brother, intending to be back by business hours; but, what with one delay and another, I was unable to get up till now."
"It is not business-like at all, sir," growled the old merchant. "But—stay a bit, Mr. Cleveland; we have a few questions to put to you."
Charles glanced round. In his hurry, he had seen no one but Mr. Howard. His eye now fell on a little man, who sat in a corner. Charley knew him to be connected with Messrs. Glyn's house; and he knew that the time was at hand when he would have need of all his presence of mind and his energies. It chanced that this gentleman had just called to enquire if anything had come to light about the mysterious cheque.
"You presented a cheque for five hundred pounds at Glyn's on Saturday morning, and received the amount in notes," began Mr. Howard, to Charles. "From whom did you get that cheque?"
No reply.