“Happened to him!” repeated Arthur, vaguely, too absorbed in his own sad thoughts to reply at once.
“Has—he—been—taken?”
“Taken! Hamish? Oh, you mean for debt!” he continued, his heart beating, and fully aroused now. “There is no further fear, I believe. He has managed to arrange with the people.”
“How has he contrived it?” exclaimed Constance, in wonder.
Arthur turned his face away. “Hamish does not make me his confidant.”
Constance stole her hand into his. “Arthur, what is the matter with you this evening? Is it that unpleasant affair at Mr. Galloway’s?”
He turned from her. He laid his face upon the table and groaned in anguish. “Be still, Constance! You can do no good.”
“But what is it?” uttered Constance in alarm. “You surely do not fear that suspicion should be cast on you, or on Hamish—although, as it appears, you and he were alone in the office with the letter?”
“Be still, I say, Constance,” he wailed. “There is nothing for it but to—to—to bear. You will do well to ask no more about it.”
A faint dread began to dawn upon her. “You and Hamish were alone with the letter!” the echo of the words came thumping against her brain. But she beat it off. Suspect a Channing! “Arthur, I need not ask if you are innocent; it would be a gratuitous insult to you.”