“Well, sir, it’s an unpleasant accusation that is brought against this young gentleman. But perhaps he’ll be able to make it clear. I hope he will. It don’t give us no pleasure when folks are convicted, especially young ones, and those we have always known to be respectable; we’d rather see ‘em let off.” Tom interrupted--Tom, in his fiery indignation. “Is it of stealing that bank-note of Galloway’s that you presume to accuse my brother?” he asked, speaking indistinctly in his haste and anger. “You have said it, sir,” replied the man. “That’s it.” “Then I say whoever accuses him ought to be--” “Silence, Thomas,” interrupted Mr. Channing. “Allow me to deal with this. Who brings this accusation against my son?” “We had our orders from Mr. Butterby, sir. He is acting for Mr. Galloway. He was called in there early this morning.” “Have you come for my son to go with you to Mr. Galloway’s?” “Not there, sir. We have to take him straight to the Guildhall. The magistrates are waiting to hear the case.” A dismayed pause. Even Mr. Channing’s heart, with all its implicit faith in the truth and honour of his children, beat as if it would burst its bounds. Tom’s beat too; but it was with a desire to “pitch into” the policemen, as he had pitched into Pierce senior in the cloisters. Mr. Channing turned to Arthur. “You have an answer to this, my son?” The question was not replied to. Mr. Channing spoke again, with the same calm emphasis. “Arthur, you can vouch for your innocence?” Arthur Channing did the very worst thing that he could have done--he hesitated. Instead of replying readily and firmly “I can,” which he might have done without giving rise to harm, he stopped to ask himself how far, consistently with safety to Hamish, he might defend his own cause. His mind was not collected; he had not, as I have said, his senses about him; and the unbroken silence, waiting for his answer, the expectant faces turned upon him, helped to confuse him and to drive his reason further away. The signs, which certainly did look like signs of guilt, struck a knell on the heart of his father. “Arthur!” he wailed out, in a tone of intense agony, “you _are_ innocent?” “Y--es,” replied Arthur, gulping down his rising agitation; his rising words--impassioned words of exculpation, of innocence, of truth. They had bubbled up within him--were hovering on the verge of his burning lips. He beat them down again to repression; but he never afterwards knew how he did it. Better that he had been still silent, than speak that dubious, indecisive “Y--es.” It told terribly against him. One, conscious of his own innocence, does not proclaim it in indistinct, half-uttered words. Tom’s mouth dropped with dismay, and his astonished eyes seemed as if they could not take themselves from Arthur’s uncertain face. Mrs. Channing staggered against the wall, with a faint cry.