“No, no, that’s impossible!” Ovington straightened himself with a sigh of relief. What mare’s nest, what bee in the bonnet, was this? The lad was dreaming—must be dreaming. “Impossible!” he repeated. “I saw it, man, and read it! And I know the old man’s signature as well as I know my own. You must be dreaming.”
“I am not, sir!” Clement answered, and added bitterly, “It was Arthur who was dreaming! Dreaming or worse, d—n him!”—the pent-up excitement of the evening finding vent at last, and the sight of his father’s stricken face whetting his rage. “He has robbed, ay, robbed his uncle, and dishonored us! That is what he has done, sir. I am not dreaming! I wish to heaven I were!”
The banker no longer protested. “Well—tell us!” he said weakly.
“It’s hard on you, sir——”
“Never mind me! Tell me what you know.” They stood round Clement, amazed and shocked, fearing the worst and yet incredulous, while he, his weary face and travel-stained figure at odds with the lighted room and the comfort about him, told his story. The banker listened. He still hoped, hoped to detect some flaw, to perceive some misunderstanding—so much, so very much, hung upon it. But even on his mind the truth at last forced itself, and monstrous as the story, incredible as Arthur’s action still appeared, he had at last to accept it and its consequences—its consequences!
He seemed to grow years older as he listened, but when Clement had done, and the whole shameful story was told, he made no comment. The position, indeed, was no worse than it had been twenty-four hours before. He might still hope against hope, that, by putting a bold face on matters, and by a dexterous use of his resources, he might ride out the storm. But the reaction from a triumphant confidence was so sudden, the failure of his recent expectations so overwhelming, that even his firm spirit yielded. He sank into his chair. Betty laid her hand on his shoulder and whispered some word of comfort in his ear, but he said nothing.
It was Clement who spoke the first word. “I am going after him,” he said, his tone hard and practical. “I have thought it out, and by posting all night I may be in London by noon to-morrow, and I may intercept him either at the brokers’ or at the India House before he has sold the stock. In that case I may be in time to stop him.”
“Why?” the banker asked, looking up. “What have we to do with him? Why should we stop him?”
“For our own sakes as well as his,” Clement answered firmly. “For our own good name, which is bound up with his. Think, think, sir, of the harm it will do us if there is a prosecution—and the old man swears that he will not acknowledge the signature! Besides I have promised to stop him—if I can. If I am too late to do that, and he has sold the stock, I can still get possession of the money, and it must be our business to return it to the owner without the loss of an hour. Of an hour, sir!” Clement repeated earnestly. “We must repudiate this transaction from the outset. We must wash our hands of it at once, if it be only to clear our own name.”
The banker looked dazed. “But,” he said, as if his mind were beginning to work again, “why should we—take all this trouble?” He hesitated, then he began again. “We have done nothing. We are innocent. Why should we——”