“You told me at Borcette that you were fully persuaded of Arthur’s innocence; you were ready to ridicule me for casting a doubt upon it,” Mr. Channing remarked to him in a low tone, as they crossed the hall.
“I have never been otherwise than persuaded of it,” said Mr. Huntley. “He is innocent as you, or as I.”
“And yet you join Mr. Galloway in assuming that he and Hamish sent back the money! The one assertion is incompatible with the other.”
Mr. Huntley laid his hand upon Mr. Channing’s shoulder. “My dear friend, all that you and I can do, is to let the matter rest. We should only plunge into shoals and quicksands, and lose our way in them, were we to pursue it.”
They had halted at the parlour door to speak. Judith came bustling up at that moment from the kitchen, a letter in her hand, looking as if in her hurry she might have knocked them over, had they not made way for her to enter.
“Bad luck to my memory, then! It’s getting not worth a button. Here, Master Arthur. The postman gave it me at the door, just as I had caught sight of the fly turning the corner with the master and missis. I slipped it into my pocket, and never thought of it till this minute.”
“So! it has come at last, has it?” cried Arthur, recognising Roland Yorke’s handwriting.
“Is he really off?” inquired Tom.
“Yes, he is really off,” replied Arthur, opening the letter and beginning to glance over the contents. “He has sailed in the ship Africa. Don’t talk to me, Tom. What a long letter!”
They left him to read it in peace. Talking together—Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Mr. Huntley, William Yorke, Hamish, Constance—all were in a group round the fire, paying no attention to him. No attention, until an exclamation caused them to turn.