"We must take all, or nothing, sir. You forbade me to speak a syllable."
"Speak—speak! Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin? You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me. Go—but mark me—breathe not a word, if you hope to live."
The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and went his way again.
It was six o'clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it. They were both in the private room, which the former had not quitted during the day. Michael was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side. When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to his old friend and spoke—
"I shall not sleep at home to-night, Burrage. I have business which must be seen to."
"Indeed, sir, you had better go home. You are very unwell."
"Silence, once more. I tell you, Burrage, it cannot be. This business must not be neglected. I have written to Mrs Allcraft, explaining the reason of my absence. You will yourself deliver the letter to her, with your own hands, Burrage. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," faltered Burrage, wishing himself deaf.
"Very well. I have no more to say. Good-by—good-night."
"Good-night, sir," said the man, walking slowly off.