"Here is a letter for the post, William," called out Mr. Ashley.
"I am coming back, sir. I have not set the counter straight yet."
He received his money—thirty shillings a week now. He then put things straight in the counting-house, to do which was as much Cyril's work as his, and took a letter from the hands of Mr. Ashley. It contained one of the duplicate lists, and was addressed as the parcel had been. William generally had charge of the outward-bound letters now; he did not forget them as he had done in his first unlucky essay. He threw on the elegant cloak of which you have heard, took his hat, and went through the town, as far as the post-office, Cyril Dare walking with him. There they parted; Cyril continuing his way homewards, William retracing his steps.
All had left the manufactory except Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn. James Meeking had gone down. On a late night, as the present, when all had done except the master and Samuel Lynn, the latter would sometimes say to the foreman, "Thee can go on to thy supper; I will lock up, and bring thee the keys." Mr. Ashley was setting his desk straight—putting sundry papers in their places; tearing up others. He unlocked his cash drawer, and put his hand into the pigeon-hole for the cheque. It was not there. Neither there nor anywhere, that he could see.
"Why, where's that cheque?" he exclaimed.
It caused Samuel Lynn to turn. "Cheque?" he repeated.
"Dunns' cheque, that you brought me an hour ago."
"I saw thee put it in the second pigeon-hole," said the Quaker, advancing to the desk, and standing by Mr. Ashley.
"I know I did. But it is gone."
"Thee must have moved it. Perhaps it is in thy private drawer?"