"You'll not live it down by impudence," said Mr. Butterby.
"Then I must live it up," was the retort, "for impudence is a fault of mine. I've heard you say I had enough for the devil. So good night to you, Butterby. I am to be found at my lodgings, if you'd like to come after me there with a pair of handcuffs."
Roland went striding off, and the officer stood to look after him. In spite of the "impudence" received, a smile crossed his face; it was the same impulsive, careless, boyish Roland Yorke of past days, good-natured under his worst sting. But whatever other impression might have been left upon Mr. Butterby's mind by the encounter, one lay very clear--that it was not Roland who was guilty this time, and he must look elsewhere for the purloiner of the cheque.
[CHAPTER XVI.]
WINNY.
Five minutes past three at the Paddington station, and all the bustle and confusion of a train just in. Gerald Yorke stood on the platform, welcoming a pretty little fair-haired woman, whose unmeaning doll's face was given to dimple with smiles one minute, and to pout the next. Also three fair-haired children, the eldest three years old, the youngest just able to walk. Mrs. Gerald Yorke was not much better than a child herself. To say the truth, she was somewhat of a doll in intellect as well as face; standing always in awe of big, resolute, clever Gerald, yielding implicitly to his superior will. But for a strong-minded sister, who had loudly rebelled against Winny's wrongs, in being condemned to an obscure country cottage, while he flourished in high life in London, and who managed privately the removal for her, she had never dared to venture on the step; but this was not to be confessed to her husband. She felt more afraid than ever of the consequences of having taken it, now that she saw him face to face.
"How many packages have you, Winny?"
"Nineteen."
"Nineteen!"
"But they are not all large, Gerald. Some of them are small bundles, done up in kitchen towels and pillowcases."