Arthur made no reply.
“What can I do for you?” repeated Hamish.
“You can leave me to myself, Hamish. That’s about the kindest thing you can do for me to-night.”
Hamish did not take the hint immediately. “We must have the accusation quashed at all hazards,” he went on. “But my father thinks Galloway will withdraw it. Yorke says he’ll not leave a stone unturned to make Helstonleigh believe the money was lost in the post-office.”
“Yorke believes so himself,” reproachfully rejoined Arthur.
“I think most people do, with the exception of Butterby. Confounded old meddler! There would have been no outcry at all, but for him.”
A pause. Arthur did not seem inclined to break it. Hamish had caught up a bit of whalebone, which happened to be lying on the drawers, and was twisting it about in his fingers, glancing at Arthur from time to time. Arthur leaned against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, and, in like manner, glanced at him. Not the slightest doubt in the world that each was wishing to speak out more freely. But some inward feeling restrained them. Hamish broke the silence.
“Then you have nothing to say to me, Arthur?”
“Not to-night.”
Arthur thought the “saying” should have been on the other side. He had cherished some faint hope that Hamish would at least acknowledge the trouble he had brought upon him. “I could not help it, Arthur; I was driven to my wit’s end; but I never thought the reproach would fall upon you,” or words to that effect. No: nothing of the sort.