“Explain!” the Squire muttered. Contempt could go no farther.
“Shall I tell him, sir?”
“You’re a fool, girl! The man knows.”
“I am sure he does not!” she said.
Again Clement thought that it was time to interpose, “Indeed I do not, sir,” he said. “I am entirely in the dark.” In truth, looking on what he did, seeing before him the unfamiliar room, the dark staring windows, and the old man so unlike himself and so like King Lear or some figure of tragedy, he was tempted to think the scene a dream. “If you will tell me what is the matter, perhaps I can help. Arthur left this morning for London. He went to raise the money with which he was entrusted——”
“Entrusted?” the Squire cried with something of his old energy. He raised his head and struck the floor with his stick. “Entrusted? That’s what you call it, is it?”
Clement stared. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“What did he tell you?” Josina asked. “For heaven’s sake speak, Clement! Tell us what he told you.”
“Ay,” the Squire chimed in. “Tell us how you managed it. Now it’s done, let’s hear it.” For the time scorn, a weary kind of scorn, had taken the place of anger and subdued him to its level.
But Clement was still at sea. “Managed it?” he repeated. “What do you——”