“I did not look at my watch,” irritably returned Hamish, who had spoken resentfully throughout, as if some great wrong were being inflicted upon him in having to speak at all. “But you can guess at the time?” “No, I can’t,” shortly retorted Hamish. “And ‘guesses’ are not evidence.” “Was it ten minutes?” “It may have been. I know he seemed to be back almost as soon as he had gone.” “Did any person--clerk, or stranger, or visitor, or otherwise--come into the office during his absence from it?” “No.” “No person whatever?” “No person whatever. I think,” continued Hamish, volunteering an opinion upon the subject, although he knew it was out of all rule and precedent to do so, “that there is a great deal of unprofitable fuss being made about the matter. The money must have been lost in going through the post; it is impossible to suppose otherwi--” Hamish was stopped by a commotion. Clattering along the outer hall, and bursting in at the court door, his black hair disordered, his usually pale cheeks scarlet, his nostrils working with excitement, came Roland Yorke. He was in a state of fierce emotion. Learning, as he had done by accident, that Arthur had been arrested upon the charge, he took up the cause hotly, gave vent to a burst of passionate indignation (in which he abused every one under the sun, except Arthur), and tore off to the town-hall. Elbowing the crowd right and left, in his impetuosity, pushing one policeman here and another there, who would have obstructed his path, he came up to Arthur and ranged himself by his side, linking his arm within his in an outburst of kindly generosity. “Old fellow, who has done this?” “Mr. Roland Yorke!” exclaimed the bench, indignantly. “What do you mean by this behaviour? Stand away, if you please, sir.” “I’ll stand away when Arthur Channing stands away,” retorted Yorke, apparently ignoring whose presence he was in. “Who accuses him? Mr. Galloway does not. This is your doing, Butterby.” “Take care that their worships don’t commit you for contempt of court,” retorted Mr. Butterby. “You are going on for it, Roland Yorke.” “Let them commit me, if they will,” foamed Roland. “I am not going to see a friend falsely accused, and not stand up for him. Channing no more touched that money than any of you did. The post-office must have had it.” “A moment, Mr. Roland Yorke: if you can calm yourself sufficiently to answer as a rational being,” interposed the magistrate who had addressed Arthur. “Have you any proof to urge in support of your assertion that the prisoner did not touch it?” “Proof, sir!” returned Roland, subsiding, however, into a tone of more respect: “does it want proof to establish the innocence of Arthur Channing? Every action of his past life is proof. He is honest as the day.” “This warm feeling does you credit, in one sense--”