“Well?” cried Mr. Galloway.
“It was better for him to tell you himself, sir; as I conclude he has now done.”
“The fact is, you are two birds of a feather,” stormed Mr. Galloway, who, when once roused, which was not often, would say anything that came uppermost, just or unjust. “The one won’t tell tales of the other. If the one set my office on fire, and then said it was the cat did it, the other would stick to it. Is it true, sir, that he was not at the office during my absence from it on Friday afternoon?” he continued to Arthur.
“That is true.”
“Then who can have taken the money?” uttered Mr. Galloway, speaking what was uppermost in his thoughts.
“Which is as much as to say that I took it,” burst from haughty Roland. “Mr. Galloway, I—”
“Keep quiet, Roland Yorke,” interrupted that gentleman. “I do not suspect you of taking it. I did suspect that you might have got some idlers in here, mauvais sujets, you know, for you call plenty of them friends; but, if you were absent yourself, that suspicion falls to the ground. Again I say, who can have taken the money?”
“It is an utter impossibility that Yorke could have taken it, even were he capable of such a thing,” generously spoke Arthur. “From the time you left the office yourself, sir, until after the letters were taken out of it to be posted, he was away from it.”
“Just like him!” exclaimed Mr. Galloway. “It must have been done while your brother Hamish was waiting in the office. We must ascertain from him who came in.”
“He told me no one came in,” repeated Arthur.