The rooks were awake in Randolph Crescent; but the windows looked down, discreetly blinded, on the return of the prodigal. John’s pass-key was a recent privilege; this was the first time it had been used; and, oh! with what a sickening sense of his unworthiness he now inserted it into the well-oiled lock and entered that citadel of the proprieties! All slept; the gas in the hall had been left faintly burning to light his return; a dreadful stillness reigned, broken by the deep ticking of the eight-day clock. He put the gas out, and sat on a chair in the hall, waiting and counting the minutes, longing for any human countenance. But when at last he heard the alarm spring its rattle in the lower story, and the servants begin to be about, he instantly lost heart, and fled to his own room, where he threw himself upon the bed. CHAPTER III—IN WHICH JOHN ENJOYS THE HARVEST HOME SHORTLY after breakfast, at which he assisted with a highly tragical countenance, John sought his father where he sat, presumably in religious meditation, on the Sabbath mornings. The old gentleman looked up with that sour, inquisitive expression that came so near to smiling and was so different in effect. ‘This is a time when I do not like to be disturbed,’ he said. ‘I know that,’ returned John; ‘but I have—I want—I’ve made a dreadful mess of it,’ he broke out, and turned to the window. Mr. Nicholson sat silent for an appreciable time, while his unhappy son surveyed the poles in the back green, and a certain yellow cat that was perched upon the wall. Despair sat upon John as he gazed; and he raged to think of the dreadful series of his misdeeds, and the essential innocence that lay behind them. ‘Well,’ said the father, with an obvious effort, but in very quiet tones, ‘what is it?’ ‘Maclean gave me four hundred pounds to put in the bank, sir,’ began John; ‘and I’m sorry to say that I’ve been robbed of it!’ ‘Robbed of it?’ cried Mr. Nicholson, with a strong rising inflection. ‘Robbed? Be careful what you say, John!’ ‘I can’t say anything else, sir; I was just robbed of it,’ said John, in desperation, sullenly. ‘And where and when did this extraordinary event take place?’ inquired the father. ‘On the Calton Hill about twelve last night.’ ‘The Calton Hill?’ repeated Mr. Nicholson. ‘And what were you doing there at such a time of the night?’ ‘Nothing, sir,’ says John. Mr. Nicholson drew in his breath. ‘And how came the money in your hands at twelve last night?’ he asked, sharply. ‘I neglected that piece of business,’ said John, anticipating comment; and then in his own dialect: ‘I clean forgot all about it.’ ‘Well,’ said his father, ‘it’s a most extraordinary story. Have you communicated with the police?’