As Roland, with a suppressed yawn, and in his usual lazy manner, set himself to work, there came a clatter at the office-door, and a man entered in the uniform of a telegraphic official, bearing a despatch in his hand. Mr. Galloway had then turned to his room, and Roland, ever ready for anything but work, started up and received the packet from the man. “Where’s it from?” asked he, in his curiosity. “Southampton,” replied the messenger. “A telegram from Southampton, sir,” announced Roland to Mr. Galloway. The latter took the despatch, and opened it, directing Jenkins to sign the paper. This done, the messenger departed. The words of the message were few, but Mr. Galloway’s eye was bending upon them sternly, and his brow had knitted, as if in perplexity. “Young gentlemen, you must look to this,” he said, coming forward, and standing before Roland and Arthur. “I find that the post-office is not to blame for this loss; it must have occurred in this room, before the letter went to the post-office.” They both looked up, both coloured, as if with inward consternation. Thoughts, we all know, are quick as lightning: what was each thinking of, that it should give rise to emotion? Arthur was the first to speak. “Do you allude to the loss of the bank-note, sir?” “What else should I allude to?” sharply answered Mr. Galloway. “But the post-office must be cheeky to deny it off-hand!” flashed Roland. “How is it possible that they can answer for the honesty of every man whose hands that letter passed through?” “Pray who told you they had denied it, Mr. Roland Yorke?” demanded his master. Roland felt a little checked. “I inferred it, sir.” “I dare say. Then allow me to tell you that they have not denied it. And one very cogent reason why they have not, is, that they are not yet cognizant of the loss. I do not jump at conclusions as you do, Roland Yorke, and I thought it necessary to make a little private inquiry before accusing the post-office, lest the post-office might not be in fault, you know.” “Quite right, I have no doubt, sir,” replied Roland, in a chafed accent, for Mr. Galloway was speaking satirically, and Roland never liked to have ridicule cast upon him. Like old Ketch, it affected his temper. “By this communication,” touching the telegraphic despatch, “I learn that the letter was not opened after it left this office,” resumed Mr. Galloway. “Consequently, the note must have been abstracted from it while the letter lay here. Who has been guilty of it?” Neither Arthur nor Roland spoke. It was not a pleasant accusation--if you can call it an accusation--and their faces deepened to scarlet; while Mr. Jenkins looked up half terrified, and began to think, what a mercy it was that he had broken his head, just that last particular Thursday night, on the marble flags of the cathedral. CHAPTER XIX. -- THE LOSS.