“I don’t know. My head aches, pondering over it. I suppose he concluded that suspicion would fall upon the post-office. It would have done so, but for that seal placed on the letter afterwards. What an unfortunate thing it was, that Roland Yorke mentioned there was money inside the letter in the hearing of Hamish!” “Did he mention it?” exclaimed Constance. He said there was a twenty-pound note in the letter, going to the cousin Galloway, and Hamish remarked that he wished it was going into his pocket instead. “I _wish_” Arthur uttered, in a sort of frenzy, “I had locked the letter up there and then.” Constance clasped her hands in pain. “I fear he may have been going wrong for some time,” she breathed. “It has come to my knowledge, through Judith, that he sits up for hours night after night, doing something to the books. Arthur,” she shivered, glancing fearfully round, “I hope those accounts are right?” The doubt thus given utterance to, blanched even the cheeks of Arthur. “Sits up at the books!” he exclaimed. “He sits up, that is certain; and at the books, as I conclude. He takes them into his room at night. It may only be that he has not time, or does not make time, to go over them in the day. It _may_ be so.” “I trust it is; I pray it may be. Mind you, Constance, our duty is plain: we must screen him; screen him at any sacrifice to ourselves, for the father and mother’s sake.” “Sacrifice to you, you ought to say. What were our other light troubles, compared with this? Arthur, will they publicly accuse you?” “It may come to that; I have been steeling myself all the morning to meet it.” He looked into her face as he said it. Constance could see how his brow and heart were aching. At that moment they were called to dinner, and Arthur turned to leave the room. Constance caught his hand, the tears raining from her eyes. “Arthur,” she whispered, “in the very darkest trouble, God can comfort us. Be assured He will comfort you.” Hamish did not make his appearance at dinner, and they sat down without him. This was not so very unusual as to cause surprise; he was occasionally detained at the office. The meal was about half over, when Annabel, in her disregard of the bounds of discipline, suddenly started from her seat and flew to the window. “Charley, there are two policemen coming here! Whatever can they want?” “Perhaps to take you,” said Mrs. Channing, jestingly. “A short sojourn at the tread-mill might be of great service to you, Annabel.” The announcement had struck upon the ear and memory of Tom. “Policemen!” he exclaimed, standing up in his place, and stretching his neck to obtain a view of them. “Why--it never can be that--old Butterby--Arthur, what ails you?”