"The money you had need of. It was a poor sum to peril one's future for—seven pounds. And why did you use Mr. Jebb's name?" Mr. Henry had been staring with all his eyes, as if the words bewildered him. "I don't quite understand, sir, what it is you are talking of." "Of my pencil, that you took from this room and pledged in Oxford Street for seven pounds," returned the Head Master in terse language, nettled at the assumption of ignorance and innocence. "Why do you force me to speak out so plainly?" Mr. Henry rose up; his whole attitude, his face, one entire questioning astonishment. "Why, Dr. Brabazon, what is it that you would accuse me of?" he exclaimed. "Of the theft of the gold pencil. Of your having taken it out of this inkstand—this inkstand," laying his hand angrily upon the article—"and making money upon it." The charge was so exceedingly different from the one feared by Mr. Henry, and seemed in itself so entirely absurd and ludicrous, that he burst into a laugh—laughed, it might be, in very relief. "I beg your pardon, sir, a thousand times. You cannot seriously suspect me capable of such a thing. Steal your pencil!" "Yes, my pencil," replied Dr. Brabazon, feeling rather bewildered. "Did you not come in at this window and take it; and then pledge it the next day in Oxford Street for seven pounds, and say you were a master here, and give in Mr. Jebb's name instead of your own?" "Certainly not. What can possibly have induced you to fancy it? Oh, sir, don't you _see_ that you might trust me better than that?" "Well, I had thought I could," answered the doctor, feeling in a hopeless maze. "I said so to Emma. You see, one of the boys had noticed you that night walking about before the window; and there were other attendant circumstances—never mind them now. I am very sorry to have said this to you if you are innocent." "Which of the boys was it that saw me?" "Trace, I think. It was he who spoke to Emma." And the doctor, feeling a conviction that this accusation was really a mistaken one, gave a summary of the details. Mr. Henry distinctly and decisively denied the charge, and the doctor could doubt no longer. But—that no shadow of uncertainty might remain Mr. Henry urged him to accompany him at once to the jeweller's shop, that the matter might be set at rest: nay, demanded it. "A moment ere we start, Mr. Henry," said the master. "If this is not the trouble on your mind, what is that trouble? You cannot deny that there's something. What is its nature?" "Spare me the question a little while, Dr. Brabazon," came the answer, given in a strangely-impassioned tone. "I have been wishing to tell you all along, but I—I—have been unable; and the conflict has robbed my days of peace, my nights of rest. Perhaps—in a few days—in a day even, I may disclose it to you." "What can it be?" cried the wondering doctor, gazing at him earnestly. "Have you done anything wrong?"