“I did not,” returned Arthur.
“And therefore—as I don’t like to be played with and made sport of, like a cat tormenting a mouse—I think I shall give orders to Butterby for a fresh investigation.”
It startled Arthur. Mr. Galloway’s curiously significant tone, his piercing gaze upon his face, also startled him. “It would bring no satisfaction, sir,” he said. “Pray do not. I would far rather continue to bear the blame.”
A pause. A new idea came glimmering into the mind of Mr. Galloway. “Whom are you screening?” he asked. But he received no answer.
“Is it Roland Yorke?”
“Roland Yorke!” repeated Arthur, half reproachfully. “No, indeed. I wish every one had been as innocent of it as was Roland Yorke.”
In good truth, Mr. Galloway had only mentioned Roland’s name as coming uppermost in his mind. He knew that no suspicion attached to Roland. Arthur resumed, in agitation:
“Let the matter drop, sir. Indeed, it will be better. It appears, now, that you have the money back again; and, for the rest, I am willing to take the blame, as I have done.”
“If I have the money back again, I have not other things back again,” crossly repeated Mr. Galloway. “There’s the loss of time it has occasioned, the worry, the uncertainty: who is to repay me all that?”
“My portion in it has been worse than yours, sir,” said Arthur, in a low, deep tone. “Think of my loss of time; my worry and uncertainty; my waste of character; my anxiety of mind: they can never be repaid to me.”