"That new fellow, Paradyne—do you know which of them he is?" broke off Trace.
Irby nodded. "A good-looking chap, don't you mean? Well up in his classics."
"Well up in them by the help of stolen money, I suppose," spoke Trace, an angry light for a moment gleaming in his eye. "You have heard, Irby, of that dreadful business of ours at Liverpool, some four years ago, when Loftus & Trace, the best and richest and most respected firm in the town, were ruined through a man they had taken in as partner?"
"I've heard something of it," said Irby, wondering.
"This new fellow, Paradyne, is the man's son."
Irby gave a low whistle. "Let's hear the particulars, Trace."
And Trace proceeded to give them. Irby was a great friend of his, and there were no other ears in view. Loftus drew himself up against the pillar, and stood there with his arms folded, listening in silence; all of them unconscious that Mr. Henry was on the other side of the pillar, taking a sketch of the quadrangle and the door of the chapel.
You heard something of the tale, reader, from Mr. Jebb last night, and there's not much more to be told. Trace, speaking quietly, as he always did, enlarged upon the wrongs dealt out to his father and Mr. Loftus, by the man Paradyne. It was the most miserable business that ever came out to the world, he said, blighting all their prospects for life; never a rogue, so great, went unhung.
"And he had only been with them a couple of years," he wound up with; "only a couple of years! The marvel was, that he could have done so much mischief in so short a time—"
"The marvel was, that he could have done it at all without being detected," interposed Loftus, speaking for the first time.