"But Charles won't disclose it; he won't," bewailed the clergyman, taking the other's hand in token of his gratitude. "Look here, my dear friend," he added, after a pause of thought, "can Charles be keeping silence to screen some one?" "To screen some one? How?" "That he did this thing willingly, with his eyes open, I never will believe. It is not in a Cleveland's nature to commit a crime. Moreover, I repeat to you that he has just assured me of his innocence by the memory of his dead mother. No, no; whatever may be the facts, Charles was not wilfully guilty. I could stake my life upon it. In cashing that cheque he must have been made the innocent tool of another, whom he won't betray out of some chivalrous feeling of honour." "But no one had possession of the cheque-book but Charles," reasoned Mr. Grubb. "He found it in the breakfast-room where I had left it. My servants are honest; they would not touch it. Moreover, it was Charles himself who presented the cheque for payment, and got the money." Mr. Cleveland rubbed his grey hair back with a look of perplexity; hair that was getting scanty now. Look at the case in what way he would, it presented contradictions and difficulties that seemed to be insuperable. "You are staying at Lord Acorn's, I suppose?" remarked Mr. Grubb, when the clergyman rose to leave. "Until Saturday. I can't run away from London and leave my boy in Newgate. Heaven be with you! I know you'll do for him what you can." The whole of the after-part of this day certain words spoken by the unhappy father haunted Francis Grubb. _In cashing that cheque he must have been made the innocent tool of another, whom he won't betray, out of some chivalrous feeling of honour_. An idea had been presented to him which he might never have taken up of himself; a painful idea; and, do what he would, he could not drive it away. It intruded itself into his business; it followed him home to dinner; and it worried him while he ate it. He had not found Lady Adela at home. She was dining out somewhere. Certainly, Mr. Grubb's domestic life was not a very sociable one. After dinner, he went to his club. It was eleven o'clock before he got home; later than he meant to be, but he did not expect his wife to be there yet. The butler, a trustworthy, semi-confidential servant, who had entered the service of the uncle, Francis Grubb, when his present master was a boy, and who had become greatly attached to him, came to the drawing-room to see if anything was wanted. "Is Lady Adela in?" asked his master. "No, sir. Her ladyship came in not long ago, for a minute or two, and went out again." "Stay a minute, Hilson," cried Mr. Grubb, as the man was turning away. "Shut the door. Carry your memory back to last Saturday. Did you happen to see Mr. Charles Cleveland come in that morning?"