“It’s quite true, Roland. It purports to be sent by the stealer of the money for the purpose of clearing me.”
Roland stood for a few moments, profound surprise on his face, and then began to execute a triumphant hornpipe amidst the desks and stools of the office. “I said it would come right some time; over and over again I said it! Give us your hand, old fellow! He’s not such a bad trump after all, that thief!”
“Hush, Roland! you’ll be heard. It may not do me much good. Galloway seems to doubt me still.”
“Doubt you still!” cried Roland, stopping short in his dance, and speaking in a very explosive tone. “Doubt you still! Why, what would he have?”
“I don’t know;” sighed Arthur. “I have assured him I did not send it; but he fancies I may have done it to clear myself. He talks of calling in Butterby again.”
“My opinion then, is, that he wants to be transported, if he is to turn up such a heathen as that!” stamped Roland. “What would he have, I ask? Another twenty, given him for interest? Arthur, dear old fellow, let’s go off together to Port Natal, and leave him and his office to it! I’ll find the means, if I rob his cash-box to get them!”
But Arthur was already beyond hearing, having waved his adieu to Roland Yorke and his impetuous but warm-hearted championship. Anxious to get on with the task he had undertaken, he hastened home. Constance was in the hall when he entered, having just returned from Lady Augusta Yorke’s.
His confidant throughout, his gentle soother and supporter, his ever ready adviser, Arthur drew her into one of the rooms, and acquainted her with what had occurred. A look of terror rose to her face, as she listened.
“Hamish has done it!” she uttered, in a whisper. “This puts all doubt at an end. There are times—there have been times”—she burst into tears as she spoke—“when I have fondly tried to cheat myself that we were suspecting him wrongfully. Arthur! others suspect him.”
Arthur’s face reflected the look that was upon hers. “I trust not!”