“Thank you, sir. I am thankful to say I have got pretty well over the hurt.”
“Roland,” said Arthur, in a half-whisper, bringing his head close to his friend’s, as they leaned together over the desk, “you remember that Ventnor letter, sent on Friday, with the money in it—”
“Ventnor letter!” interrupted Roland. “What Ventnor letter?”
“The one for Robert Galloway. Hamish was looking at it. It had a twenty-pound note in it.”
“For Ventnor, was it? I did not notice what place it was bound for. That fellow, the cousin Galloway, changes his place of abode like the Wandering Jew. What of the letter?”
“It has been robbed of the note.”
“No!” uttered Roland.
“It has. The cousin says the letter reached him, but the note did not. Mr. Galloway seems uncommonly put out. He accused me, at first, of not taking it myself to the post. As if I should confide letters of value to any one not worthy of trust!”
“Did you post it yourself?” asked Roland.
“Of course I did. When you were coming in, after playing truant on Friday afternoon, I was then going. You might have seen the letters in my hand.”