“What do you mean by that?” retorted Preen, haughtily.
“I took particular notice of the horse and gig, so as to recognise them again if ever I got the chance; and I say that it was this gig and this horse, sir. There’s no mistake about it.”
They stared into one another’s eyes, one face looking up, and the other looking down. All in a moment, Stephenson saw the other face turn ghastly white. It had come into Mr. Preen’s recollection amidst his bewilderment, that Oliver had gone into Worcester last Saturday afternoon, driving the horse and gig.
“I can’t understand this! Who should be in my gig?” he cried, calling some presence of mind to his aid. “Last Saturday, you say? In the afternoon?”
“Last Saturday afternoon, close upon four o’clock. As I turned down Lich Street, I saw the lay-clerks coming out of College. Afternoon service is generally over a little before four,” added Stephenson. “He was driving straight into Friar Street from Sidbury.”
Another recollection flashed across Mr. Preen: Oliver’s asking just now to be put down in College Street. Was it to prevent his passing through High Street? Was he afraid to pass through it?
“He is a nice-looking young fellow,” said Stephenson; “has a fair, mild face; but he was the one who changed the note.”
“That may be; but as to his being in my gig, it is not—— Why, I was not in town at all on Saturday,” broke off Mr. Preen, with a show of indignant remonstrance.
“No, Mr. Preen; the young man was in it alone,” said Stephenson, who probably had his own thoughts upon the problem.