“Oh, Mr Booms, Mr Reginald is in prison at Liverpool, on a charge—a false charge, I’m certain—of fraud. Isn’t it dreadful? And Mr Horace ought to know of it. Could you break it to him?”
“How can I keep it a secret and break it to him?” said Mr Booms, in a pained tone. “Oh yes, I’ll try, if you like.”
“Oh, thank you. Do it very gently, and be sure not to let my mother, or his, or anybody else hear of it, won’t you?”
“I’ll try. Of course every one will put all the blame on me if it does spread.”
“No, I won’t. Do it first thing to-morrow, won’t you, Mr Booms?”
“Oh yes”; and then, as if determined to be in time for the interview, he added, “I’d better go now.”
And he departed very like a man walking to the gallows.
Shuckleford returned at midnight, and found the supper waiting for him, but, to his relief, neither of the ladies.
He wrote the following short note before he partook of his evening meal:—
“Dear D.,—Come round first thing in the morning. The police have dished us for once, but we’ll be quits with them if we put our heads together. Be sure and come. Yours, S. S.”