Mr. Galloway turned again to the officer. He resented the imputation. “The Channings are altogether above suspicion, from the father downwards,” he remonstrated. “Were Arthur Channing dishonestly inclined, he has had the opportunity to rob me long before this.” “Persons of hitherto honourable conduct, honest by nature and by habit, have succumbed under sudden temptation or pressing need,” was the answer. “Arthur Channing is in no pressing need. He is not hard up for money.” A smile actually curled the detective’s lip. “A great many more young men are harder up for money than they allow to appear. The Channings are in what may be called difficulties, through the failure of their Chancery suit, and the lad must have yielded to temptation.” Mr. Galloway could not be brought to see it. “You may as well set on and suspect Hamish,” he resentfully said. “He was equally alone with the letter.” “No,” was the answer of the keen officer. “Hamish Channing is in a responsible position; he would not be likely to emperil it for a twenty-pound note; and he could not know that the letter contained money.” Mr. Butterby was not cognizant of quite the facts of the case, you see. “It is absurd to suspect Arthur Channing.” “Which is the more absurd--to suspect him, or to assume that the bank-note vanished without hands? forced its own way through the envelope, and disappeared up the chimney in a whirlwind?” asked the officer, bringing sarcasm to his aid. “If the facts are as you have stated, that only the two Channings had access to the letter, the guilt must lie with one of them. Facts are facts, Mr. Galloway.” Mr. Galloway admitted that facts _were_ facts, but he could not be brought to allow the guilt of Arthur Channing. The detective rose. “You have confided the management of this affair to me,” he observed, “and I have no doubt I shall be able to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. One more question I must ask you. Is it known to your clerks that you have not the number of the note?” “Yes, it is.” “Then I fear you stand little chance of ever seeing it again. That fact known, no time would be lost in parting with it; they’d make haste to get it safe off.” Not an instant did Mr. Butterby take for consideration upon quitting Mr. Galloway. With a sharp, unhesitating step, as though his mind had been made up for a month past as to what his course must be, he took his way to the house of Mr. Joe Jenkins. That gentleman, his head still tied up, was just leaving for the office, and Mr. Butterby encountered him coming through the shop. “Good morning, Jenkins. I want a word with you alone.” Jenkins bowed, in his civil, humble fashion; but “a word alone” was more easily asked than had, Mrs. Jenkins being all-powerful, and burning with curiosity. The officer had to exert some authority before he could get rid of her, and be left at peace with Jenkins.