Mr. Simms knew him. That it was a Yorke there could be no doubt; and a minute's pause sufficed to show him that it was no other than the truant Roland. Civilly, but firmly, Mr. Simms arrested progress.
"Is it you, Mr. Roland Yorke?"
"Yes, it's me," said Roland. "I'm only at Helstonleigh for a few hours and was in hopes of getting off again without meeting any of yon," he candidly added. "You're fit to swear at me, I suppose, Simms, for never having sent you the money?"
"I certainly expected to be paid long before this, Mr. Yorke."
"So did I," said Roland. "I'd have sent it you had I been able. I would, Simms; honour bright. How much is it? Five pounds?"
"And seven shillings added on to it."
"Ay, I've got the list somewhere. It's over forty pounds that I owe in the place altogether, getting on for fifty: and every soul of you shall be paid with interest as soon as I can scrape the money together. I've had nothing but ill-luck since I left here, Simms, and it has not turned yet."
"It was said you went to foreign parts to make your fortune, sir. My lady herself told me you were safe to come home with one."
"And I thought I was," gloomily answered Roland. "Instead of that, Simms, I got home without a shirt to my back. I've gone in for work this many a year now, but somehow fortune's not with me. I work daily, every bit as hard and long as you do, Simms; perhaps harder; and I can hardly keep myself. I've not been able to do a stroke since this dreadful business about Arthur Channing--which brought me down here."
"Is he found, sir? We shouldn't like to lose such a one as him."