“I was not guilty of it,” Arthur impressively said, his tone full of emotion. “Mr. Dean! believe me. When I shall come to answer to my Maker for my actions upon earth, I cannot then speak with more earnest truth than I now speak to you. I am entirely innocent of the charge. I did not touch the money; I did not know that the money was lost, until Mr. Galloway announced it to me some days afterwards.”
The dean gazed at Arthur as he stood before him; at his tall form—noble even in its youthfulness—his fine, ingenuous countenance, his earnest eye; it was impossible to associate such with the brand of guilt, and the dean’s suspicious doubts melted away. If ever uprightness was depicted unmistakably in a human countenance, it shone out then from Arthur Channing’s.
“But there appears, then, to be some mystery attaching to the loss, to the proceedings altogether,” debated the dean.
“No doubt there may be; no doubt there is,” was the reply of Arthur. “Sir,” he impulsively added, “will you stand my friend, so far as to grant me a favour?”
The dean wondered what was coming.
“Although I have thus asserted my innocence to you; and it is the solemn truth; there are reasons why I do not wish to speak out so unequivocally to others. Will you kindly regard this interview as a confidential one—not speaking of its purport even to Mr. Galloway?”
“But why?” asked the dean.
“I cannot explain. I can only throw myself upon your kindness, Mr. Dean, to grant the request. Indeed,” he added, his face flushing, “my motive is an urgent one.”
“The interview was not of my seeking, so you may have your favour,” said the dean, kindly. “But I cannot see why you should not publicly assert it, if, as you say, you are innocent.”
“Indeed, I am innocent,” repeated Arthur. “Should one ray of light ever be thrown upon the affair, you will see, Mr. Dean, that I have spoken truth.”