“What sources of expense has Arthur Channing?” demanded he, so abruptly as to startle and confuse Jenkins. “Sources of expense, sir?” he repeated. “What are his habits? Does he squander money? Does he go out in an evening into expensive company?” “I’m sure, sir, I cannot tell you anything about it,” Jenkins was mildly beginning. He was imperatively interrupted by the detective. “I ask _to know_. You are aware that I possess authority to compel you to speak; therefore, answer me without excuse or circumlocution; it will save trouble.” “But indeed, sir, I really do _not_ know,” persisted Jenkins. “I should judge Mr. Arthur Channing to be a steady, well-conducted young gentleman, who has no extravagant habits at all. As to his evenings, I think he spends them mostly at home.” “Do you know whether he has any pressing debts?” “I heard him say to Mr. Yorke one day, that a twenty-pound note would pay all he owed, and leave him something out of it,” spoke Jenkins in his unconscious simplicity. “Ah!” said Mr. Butterby, drawing in his lips, though his face remained impassive as before. “When was this?” “Not long ago, sir. About a week, it may have been, before I met with that accident--which accident, I begin to see now, sir, happened providentially, for it caused me to be away from the office when that money was lost.” “An unpleasant loss,” remarked the officer, with apparent carelessness; “and the young gentlemen must feel it so--Arthur Channing especially. Yorke, I believe, was out?” “He does feel it very much, sir. He was as agitated about it yesterday as could be, when Mr. Galloway talked of putting it into the hands of the police. It is a disagreeable thing to happen in an office, you know, sir.” A slight pause of silence was made by the detective ere he rejoined. “Agitated, was he? And Mr. Roland Yorke the same, no doubt?” “No, sir; Mr. Roland does not seem to care much about it. He thinks it must have been taken in its transit through the post-office, and I cannot help being of the same opinion, sir.” Another question or two, and Jenkins attended Mr. Butterby to the door. He was preparing to follow him from it, but a peremptory female voice arrested his departure. “Jenkins, I want you.” “It is hard upon half-past nine, my dear. I shall be late.” “If it’s hard upon half-past ten, you’ll just walk here. I want you, I say.” Meek as any lamb, Mr. Jenkins returned to the back parlour, and was marshalled into a chair. Mrs. Jenkins closed the door and stood before him. “Now, then, what did Butterby want?” “I don’t know what he wanted,” replied Jenkins. “You will sit there till you tell me,” resolutely replied the lady. “I am not going to have police inquisitors making mysterious visits inside my doors, and not know what they do it for. You’ll tell me every word that passed, and the sooner you begin, the better.”