"No. You are on the wrong scent, I say."
"And you think you are on the right one?"
"I could put my finger out this night and lay it on the fox. But I tell you, sir, I don't want to, unless I am compelled. Don't you compel me, Mr. Dare, of all people in the world."
Mr. Dare leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. No suspicion of the truth had crossed him, and he could not understand either the sergeant or his manner. The latter rose to depart.
"The other cloak, similar to young Halliburton's, belongs to your son Herbert," he whispered, as he passed Mr. Dare. "It was his brother, Cyril, who wore it on Saturday night, and who changed the cheque: therefore we may give a guess as to who took the cheque out of Mr. Ashley's desk. Now you be still over it, sir, for his sake, as I shall be. If I can, I'll call at your office to-morrow, Mr. Dare, and talk further. White must have the money refunded to him, or he won't be still."
Anthony Dare fell into a confusion of horror and consternation, leaving the sergeant to bow himself out. Mrs. Dare heard the departure, and returned to the room.
"Well," cried she briskly, "is he going to accuse Halliburton?"
Mr. Dare did not answer. He looked up in a beseeching, helpless sort of manner, as one who is stunned by a blow.
"What is the matter?" she questioned, gazing at him closely. "Are you ill?"
He rose up shaking, as if ague were upon him. "No—no."