“Do you allude to the loss of the bank-note, sir?”
“What else should I allude to?” sharply answered Mr. Galloway.
“But the post-office must be cheeky to deny it off-hand!” flashed Roland. “How is it possible that they can answer for the honesty of every man whose hands that letter passed through?”
“Pray who told you they had denied it, Mr. Roland Yorke?” demanded his master.
Roland felt a little checked. “I inferred it, sir.”
“I dare say. Then allow me to tell you that they have not denied it. And one very cogent reason why they have not, is, that they are not yet cognizant of the loss. I do not jump at conclusions as you do, Roland Yorke, and I thought it necessary to make a little private inquiry before accusing the post-office, lest the post-office might not be in fault, you know.”
“Quite right, I have no doubt, sir,” replied Roland, in a chafed accent, for Mr. Galloway was speaking satirically, and Roland never liked to have ridicule cast upon him. Like old Ketch, it affected his temper.
“By this communication,” touching the telegraphic despatch, “I learn that the letter was not opened after it left this office,” resumed Mr. Galloway. “Consequently, the note must have been abstracted from it while the letter lay here. Who has been guilty of it?”
Neither Arthur nor Roland spoke. It was not a pleasant accusation—if you can call it an accusation—and their faces deepened to scarlet; while Mr. Jenkins looked up half terrified, and began to think, what a mercy it was that he had broken his head, just that last particular Thursday night, on the marble flags of the cathedral.