Mr. Galloway made no response. He had caught up a lease that was lying on Jenkins’s desk, and stood looking at it with no pleasant expression of countenance. On went that undaunted Roland:
“The next thing Lady Augusta had occasion to send by post was a gold cameo pin. It was enclosed in a pasteboard box, and, when packed, looked just like the parcel of pills. I wrote PILLS on it, in great round text-hand. That reached its destination safely enough, sir.”
“More safely than you would, if it depended upon your pursuing your business steadily,” retorted Mr. Galloway to Roland. “Fill in that tithe paper.”
As Roland, with a suppressed yawn, and in his usual lazy manner, set himself to work, there came a clatter at the office-door, and a man entered in the uniform of a telegraphic official, bearing a despatch in his hand. Mr. Galloway had then turned to his room, and Roland, ever ready for anything but work, started up and received the packet from the man.
“Where’s it from?” asked he, in his curiosity.
“Southampton,” replied the messenger.
“A telegram from Southampton, sir,” announced Roland to Mr. Galloway.
The latter took the despatch, and opened it, directing Jenkins to sign the paper. This done, the messenger departed. The words of the message were few, but Mr. Galloway’s eye was bending upon them sternly, and his brow had knitted, as if in perplexity.
“Young gentlemen, you must look to this,” he said, coming forward, and standing before Roland and Arthur. “I find that the post-office is not to blame for this loss; it must have occurred in this room, before the letter went to the post-office.”
They both looked up, both coloured, as if with inward consternation. Thoughts, we all know, are quick as lightning: what was each thinking of, that it should give rise to emotion? Arthur was the first to speak.