“I would gladly do so if I had it, but—”
“I suppose it’s gone to London too?” said she, with supernatural calmness.
“It has been paid in with all the money to the bank,” said Reginald. “But if you wish it I will write to the managing director and ask him to return it by next post.”
“Will you?” said she, in tones that might have frozen any one less heated than Reginald. “And you suppose I’ve come all the way from Dorsetshire to get that for an answer, do you? You’re mistaken, sir! I don’t leave this place till I get my money or my things! So now!”
“Then,” said Reginald, feeling the case desperate, and pushing a chair in her direction, “perhaps you’d better sit down.”
She glared round at him indignantly. But perhaps it was the sight of his haggard, troubled face, or the faint suspicion that he, after all, might be more honest than his employers, or the reflection that she could get her rights better out of the place than in it. Whatever the reason was, she changed her mind.
“You shall hear of me again, sir!” said she; “mind that! Love, indeed!” whereupon she bounced out of the office and slammed the door behind her.
Reginald sat with his eyes on the door for a full two minutes before he could sufficiently collect his wits to know where he was or what had happened.
Then a sense of indignation overpowered all his other feelings—not against Mrs Wrigley, but against Mr Medlock, for leaving him in a position where he could be, even in the remotest degree, open to so unpleasant a charge as that he had just listened to.
Why could he not be trusted with sufficient money and control over the operations of the Corporation to enable him to meet so unfounded a charge? What would the Bishop of S— or the other directors think if they heard that a lady had come all the way from Dorsetshire to tell them they were a set of swindlers and thieves? If he had had the sending off of the orders to see to, he was confident he could have got every one of them off by this time, even if he had made up every parcel with his own hands.