“Have you heard anything in particular about Arthur lately?” inquired Mr. Channing.
“Of course I have,” was the answer. “Ellen did not fail to give me a full account of it. I congratulate you on possessing such sons.”
“Congratulate! To what do you allude?” asked Mr. Channing.
“To Arthur’s applying after Jupp’s post, as soon as he knew that the suit had failed. He’s a true Channing. I am glad he got it.”
“Not to that—I did not allude to that,” hastily rejoined Mr. Channing. And then, with downcast eyes, and a downcast heart, he related sufficient to put Mr. Huntley in possession of the facts.
Mr. Huntley heard the tale with incredulity, a smile of ridicule parting his lips. “Suspect Arthur of theft!” he exclaimed. “What next? Had I been in my place on the magistrates’ bench that day, I should have dismissed the charge at once, upon such defective evidence. Channing, what is the matter?”
Mr. Channing laid his hand upon his aching brow, and Mr. Huntley had to bend over him to catch the whispered answer. “I do fear that he may be guilty. If he is not guilty, some strange mystery altogether is attached to it.”
“But why do you fear that he is guilty?” asked Mr. Huntley, in surprise.
“Because his own conduct, relating to the charge, is so strange. He will not assert his innocence; or, if he does attempt to assert it, it is with a faint, hesitating manner and tone, that can only give one the impression of falsehood, instead of truth.”
“It is utterly absurd to suppose your son Arthur capable of the crime. He is one of those whom it is impossible to doubt; noble, true, honourable! No; I would suspect myself, before I could suspect Arthur Channing.”