They silently looked at one another for a full minute. Mrs. Carlen evidently could not understand his meaning. I am sure I did not.
"Charles's money, I am sorry to say, is lost," he continued.
"Lost! Since when?"
"Since the bank-panic that we had nearly two years ago."
Mrs. Carlen collapsed. "Oh, dear!" she breathed. "Did you—pray forgive the question, Mr. Serjeant—did you lose it? Or—or—the other trustee?"
He shook his head. "No, no. We neither lost it, nor are we responsible for the loss. Charles's grandfather, my brother, invested the money, six thousand pounds, in bank debentures to bring in five per cent. He settled the money upon his daughter, Lucy, and upon her children after her, making myself and our old friend, George Wickham, trustees. In the panic of two years ago this bank went; its shares and its debentures became all but worthless."
"Is the money all gone? quite gone?" gasped Mrs. Carlen. "Will it never be recovered?"
"The debentures are Charles's still, but they are for the present almost worthless," he replied. "The bank went on again, and if it can recover itself and regain prosperity, Charles in the end may not greatly suffer. He may regain his money, or part of it. But it will not be yet awhile. The unused portion of the income had been sunk, year by year, in further debentures, in accordance with the directions of the will. All went."
"But—someone must have paid for Charles all this time—two whole years!" she reiterated, in vexed surprise.
"Yes! it has been managed," he gently said.