Another recollection flashed across Mr. Preen: Oliver's asking just now to be put down in College Street. Was it to prevent his passing through High Street? Was he afraid to pass through it? "He is a nice-looking young fellow," said Stephenson; "has a fair, mild face; but he was the one who changed the note." "That may be; but as to his being in my gig, it is not---- Why, I was not in town at all on Saturday," broke off Mr. Preen, with a show of indignant remonstrance. "No, Mr. Preen; the young man was in it alone," said Stephenson, who probably had his own thoughts upon the problem. "Well, I can't stay longer now; I'm late already," said Mr. Preen. "Good morning, Stephenson." And away he drove with a dash. Oliver was waiting in College Street, standing near the Hare and Hounds Inn. Mr. Preen pulled up. "So you did not chose to come on!" he said. "Well, I--I thought there'd be hardly time, and I might miss you; I went to get my hair cut," replied Oliver, as he settled himself in his place beside his father. Mr. Preen drove on in silence until they were opposite the Commandery gates in the lower part of Sidbury. Then he spoke again. "What made you drive through Friar Street on Saturday last, instead of going the direct way?" "Through--Friar Street?" stammered Oliver. "Through Friar Street, instead of High Street," repeated Mr. Preen, in a sharp, passionate accent. "Oh, I remember. High Street is so crowded on a market day; the back streets are quiet," said Oliver, as if he had a lump in his throat, and could not make his voice heard. "And in taking the back streets you avoid the silversmith's, and the risk you run of being recognised; is that it?" savagely retorted Mr. Preen. Not another word did he speak, only drove on home at a furious pace. Oliver knew all then: the disgrace for which he had been so long waiting had come upon him. But when they got indoors, Mr. Preen let loose the vials of his wrath upon Oliver. Before his mother, before Jane, he published his iniquity. It was he, Oliver, who had stolen the ten-pound note; it was he who had so craftily got it changed at Worcester. Oliver spoke not a word of denial, made no attempt at excuse or defence; he stood with bent head and pale, meek face, his blue eyes filled with utter misery. The same look of misery lay in Mrs. Preen's eyes as she faintly reproached him amid tears and sobs. Jane was simply stunned. "You must go away now and hide yourself; I can't keep you here to be found and pounced upon," roared Mr. Preen. "By the end of the week you must be gone somewhere. Perhaps you can pick up a living in London." "Yes, I will go," said Oliver, meekly. And at the first lull in the storm he crept up to his room. He did not come down to dinner; did not come to tea. Jane carried up a cup of tea upon a waiter and some bread-and-butter, and put it down outside the chamber door, which he had bolted.