“The meaning is plain enough,” replied Mr. Galloway, calmly. “Must I repeat it for the third time? I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”
“But your instructions to me were that you did put the note into the letter,” cried Mr. Butterby, interrupting the examination.
“I will not swear it,” reiterated the witness.
“Then there’s an end of the case!” exclaimed the magistrates’ clerk, in some choler. “What on earth was the time of the bench taken up for in bringing it here?”
And there was an end of the case—at any rate for the present—for nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Mr. Galloway.
“I have been checkmated,” ejaculated the angry Butterby.
They walked back arm-in-arm to Mr. Galloway’s, Roland and Arthur. Hamish went the other way, to his own office, and Mr. Galloway lingered somewhere behind. Jenkins—truehearted Jenkins, in the black handkerchief still—was doubly respectful to Arthur, and rose to welcome him; a faint hectic of pleasure illumining his face at the termination of the charge.
“Who said our office was going to be put down for a thief’s!” uttered Roland. “Old Galloway’s a trump! Here’s your place, Arthur.”
Arthur did not take it. He had seen from the window the approach of Mr. Galloway, and delicacy prevented his assuming his old post until bade to do so. Mr. Galloway came in, and motioned him into his own room.
“Arthur Channing,” he said, “I have acted leniently in this unpleasant matter, for your father’s sake; but, from my very heart, I believe you to be guilty.”