“A singular mistake for Jones and Wright to make,” he observed. “However, I will see them myself. It is close by, and I daresay they will not have closed already.”
He went off, and Oscar, without thinking more of the matter, shut up the desks and such places as were under his care, gave out the letters for the post, and went home.
He wished there had been something else to do than to go to the River Street house. Had Sheila only been there, he would have spent the Sunday at Cossart Place, for he was a favourite in that house, Effie having taken one of her rather capricious fancies to him. But it was no use thinking of that now; and he went home in the snow, glad to find himself under shelter, although there was nobody to give him a welcome.
The Bensons were always “at home” on Saturday afternoons, and it was the fashion now for the Cossarts to be there pretty regularly. The two families had always been intimate, now they were almost like one. Raby’s marriage was being talked of for the coming summer. Her mind was already very full of the trousseau and wedding finery.
Oscar established himself in the library and commenced his weekly journal letter to Sheila. He had posted one for the mail yesterday, but he had not been able to tell her of several small items of interest which had occurred during the past week. He was still writing when his uncle came in with a very grave look upon his face.
Oscar felt at once that something must be amiss, but it did not occur to him that the matter would affect him personally. He looked up with a question in his eyes, and was perplexed at the grave unbending glance that met his.
“I have been to Jones and Wright about that bill, Oscar,” he said, in very measured tones, and then came to a full stop.
“Yes, uncle?” said Oscar, with a note of interrogation in his voice, and then came to a deadlock himself, feeling uncomfortable without knowing why.
“Just that, Oscar. I have been to them. They tell me that bill was never paid. That receipt was not made by any of their people. They invariably use their stamp; they do not write across the postage stamp with a pen. I verified this by going back to the office and looking up former receipts. See here, I have brought the bills to show you. No, Oscar, do not speak yet, I do not wish you to do so. Take time. I will leave the papers here with you now. Later on I will come for your explanation. Remember, my boy, that all I look for is a free and candid explanation and confession, whatever the fault may be. You are my sister’s son, and I shall not forget that.”
And Mr. Tom walked rather hastily from the room, leaving Oscar sitting with the bills before him, and a dazed expression upon his face.