They understood, naturally, what the pill was. Especially Arthur, who had been told by Roland himself, that he was writing to Mr. Galloway. “You see, sir,” said Arthur with a bright smile, “that I was innocent.”
“I do see it,” replied Mr. Galloway, laying his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Why could you not speak openly to my face and tell me so?”
“Because—I am ashamed, sir, now to confess why. We were all at cross-purposes together, it seems.”
“He suspected that it was all in the family, Mr. Galloway,” cried Hamish, in his gay good humour. “It appears that he laid the charge of that little affair to me.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Galloway.
“We both did,” exclaimed Constance, coming forward with tears in her eyes. “Do you think that the mere fact of suspicion being cast upon him, publicly though it was made, could have rendered us as cowardly miserable as it did? Hamish, how shall we atone to you?”
“The question is, how shall I atone to you, my old friend, for the wrong done your son?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, seizing Mr. Channing’s hand. “Arthur, you and I shall have accounts to make up together.”
“If reparation for unjust suspicion is to be the order of the day, I think I ought to have some of it,” said laughing Hamish, with a glance at Mr. Huntley.
A sudden thought seemed to strike Mr. Channing. “Huntley,” he impulsively cried, “was this the cause of displeasure that you hinted had been given you by Hamish?”
“That, and nothing else,” was Mr. Huntley’s answer. “I suppose I must take him into favour again—‘make reparation,’ as he says.”