“No. You can take them now.”
Arthur departed. A few paces from the door he met Roland Yorke, coming along in a white heat.
“Channing, I could not help it—I could not, upon my honour. I had to go somewhere with Knivett, and we were kept till now. Galloway’s in an awful rage, I suppose?”
“He has only just come in. You had no right to play me this trick, Yorke. But for Hamish, I must have locked up the office. Don’t you do it again, or Mr. Galloway may hear of it.”
“It is all owing to that confounded Jenkins!” flashed Roland. “Why did he go and get his head smashed? You are a good fellow, Arthur. I’ll do you a neighbourly turn, some time.”
He sped into the office, and Arthur walked to the post with the letters. Coming back, he turned into Mrs. Jenkins’s shop in the High Street.
Mrs. Jenkins was behind the counter. “Oh, go up! go up and see him!” she cried, in a tone of suppressed passion. “His bedroom’s front, up the two-pair flight, and I’ll take my affidavit that there’s been fifty folks here this day to see him, if there has been one. I could sow a peck of peas on the stairs! You’ll find other company up there.”
Arthur groped his way up the stairs; they were dark too, coming in from the sunshine. He found the room, and entered. Jenkins lay in bed, his bandaged head upon the pillow; and, seated by his side, his apron falling, and his clerical hat held between his knees, was the Bishop of Helstonleigh.