‘I could not let you go without _that_, dearest. Keep a brave heart, my own laddie, for I know so well that we shall come through it all right.’ So Frank set out with a higher courage, and they both returned to the agent’s house. His white face turned a shade whiter when he understood their errand. ‘Is this necessary, Mr. Wingfield?’ he pleaded. ‘Won’t you take my word for this money?’ ‘I am sorry to have to say it, sir, but we have trusted in your word too often.’ ‘But the money is there, I swear it.’ ‘It is the Company’s money, and we must have it.’ ‘It will ruin my credit locally if I draw out my whole account under compulsion.’ ‘Then let him keep ten pounds in,’ said Frank. Farintosh agreed with an ill grace to the compromise, and they all started off for the bank. When they reached the door the agent turned upon them with an appealing face. ‘Don’t come in with me, gentlemen. I could never hold up my head again.’ ‘It is for Mr. Crosse to decide.’ ‘I don’t want to be unreasonable, Farintosh. Go in alone and draw the money.’ They could never understand why he begged for that extra five minutes. Perhaps it was that he had some mad hope of persuading the bank manager to allow him to overdraw to that amount. If so, the refusal was a curt one, for he reappeared with a ghastly face and walked up to Frank. ‘I may as well confess to you, Mr. Crosse, I have nothing in the bank.’ Frank whistled and turned upon his heel. He could not by reproaches add to the wretched man’s humiliation. After all, he had himself to blame. He had incurred a risk with his eyes open, and he was not the man to whine now that the thing had gone against him. Wingfield walked home with him and murmured some words of sympathy. At the gate the accountant left him and went on to the station. So their liability had risen from fifty to two hundred and seventy pounds. Even Maude was for an instant daunted by the sum. The sale of their furniture would hardly meet it. It was the blackest hour of their lives, and yet, always a strange sweet undercurrent of joy was running through it, for it is only sorrow, fairly shared and bravely borne, which can weld two human souls together. Dinner was over when there came a ring at the bell. ‘If you please, sir, Mr. Farintosh would like to see you,’ said the maid Jemima. ‘Show him in here.’ ‘Don’t you think, Frank, that I had better go?’ ‘No, I don’t. I never asked him to come. If he comes, let him face us both. I have not made much of my dealings with him alone.’ He was shown in, downcast, shifty-eyed, and ill at ease. He laid his hat upon the floor, and crept humbly towards the chair which Frank pushed towards him. ‘Well, Farintosh?’