Oscar looked up eagerly.
“You are the very person I was wanting,” he said, not pausing to consider whether or not open speech were the most diplomatic way of treating this problem. “Cyril, do you remember those days after Curtis died when you came and helped in the office?”
Suddenly Cyril’s eyes narrowed slightly; if Oscar had not been so absorbed himself, he might have noticed the indefinable change that passed over Cyril’s face, but his voice was quite gay and easy.
“I remember coming and writing a lot of very dry letters, but I hope you don’t expect me to quote you their contents after three months!”—and he laughed.
“Do you remember your father bringing in some money and giving it to me to pay a bill of Jones and Wright?”
Cyril turned to poke the fire, and seemed to be pausing to refresh his memory.
“I think I have a vague recollection of something of the sort, though what firm it was I should be sorry to say. I remember his putting some money on your desk, and I think I advised you to lock it up.”
Oscar gave a little start; those words brought back a fresh wave of recollection, but his heart beat heavily and seemed to fall within him. He had not a very high opinion of Cyril’s moral courage. If indeed he had been guilty—but Oscar would not pursue the thought farther lest he should lose his self-control.
“Cyril, didn’t you take the money to pay the bill? Don’t you remember saying you had written enough, and would like a breath of fresh air? We thought it would get rid of the money lying about. Didn’t you take it and bring back the receipt?”
“I?” questioned Cyril lightly, leaning forward and making another vigorous onslaught at the fire. “I don’t recollect ever paying a firm’s bill in my life! But suppose I did, what then?”