Ovington pushed the decanter and a glass towards him. “A glass of wine, Rodd,” he said genially. He was not of those who undervalued his cashier, though he knew his limitations. “The bank!” he said. “And those who have stood by it!” Betty added softly. Rodd drank the toast with a muttered word. “Mr. Rodd has not the same reason to be thankful that we have,” Betty continued carelessly, holding her knitting up to the lamp. “Why not?” Her father did not understand. “Why,” innocently, as she lowered the knitting again, “he does not stand to lose anything, does he?” “Except his place,” the cashier objected, his eyes on his glass. “Just so,” the banker rejoined. “And in that event,” moved to unusual frankness, “we should have been all out together. And Rodd might not have been the worst off, my girl. “Exactly,” Betty said. “I’m sure that he would take care of that.” The cashier opened his mouth to speak, but checked himself, and drank off his wine. Then, as he rose, “If you know where Mr. Clement is, sir——” “I don’t. I can’t think what has become of him,” the banker explained. “He went out about four, and since then—hallo! That’s some one in a hurry. It sounds like a fire.” A vehicle had burst in on the evening stillness. It came clattering at a reckless pace up Bride Hill. It passed the bank, it rattled noisily around the corner of the Market Place, and pounded away down the High Street. “More likely some one hastening to get out of danger,” said Betty. “_A sauve qui peut_, Mr. Rodd—if you know what that means.” The clerk, with a flushed cheek, avoided the question. “It might be some one trying to catch the seven o’clock coach, sir,” he said. “Very likely. And if so he’s failed, for he’s coming back again. Ay, here he comes, and he stopping here, by Jove! I hope that nothing’s wrong.” The vehicle had, indeed, stopped abruptly before the house. They heard some one alight on the pavement, a latchkey was thrust into the door. “It’s Clement!” the banker exclaimed, his eyes on the door. “I hope he does not bring bad news! Well, lad?” as Clement in his overcoat, his hat on his head, appeared in the doorway. “What is it? Is anything wrong?” “Very much wrong!” his son replied curtly, and he closed the door behind him. He was pale, and his splashed coat and neck-shawl tied awry, no less than his agitated face, confirmed their fears. “Out with it, lad! What is it? his father asked, fearing he knew not what. “Bad news, sir!” was the answer. “I’m sorry to say I bring very bad news!” “What?” “That loan of Mr. Griffin’s——” “The twelve thousand? Yes?”—anxiously—“well?” “It’s a fraud, sir! A cursed fraud!” There was a tense silence. Then, “Impossible!” the banker exclaimed. But he grasped a chair to steady himself. His face had turned grey. “The Squire knows nothing of it!” Clement struck his open hand on the back of a chair. “He never signed the transfer! He never gave any authority for the loan!”