“It does me no credit at all,” fiercely interrupted Roland. “I don’t defend him because he is my friend; I don’t defend him because we are in the same office, and sit side by side at the same desk; I do it, because I know him to be innocent.” “How do you know it?” “He _could_ not be guilty. He is incapable of it. Better accuse me, or Jenkins, than accuse him!” “You and Jenkins were not at the office during the suspected time.” “Well, I know we were not,” acknowledged Roland, lowering his voice to a more reasonable tone. “And, just because it happened, by some cross-grained luck, that Channing was, Butterby pitches upon him, and accuses him of the theft. He never did it! and I’ll say it with my last breath.” With some trouble: threatenings on the part of the court; and more explosions from himself: Mr. Roland Yorke was persuaded to retire. He went as far as the back of the room, and there indulged in under-currents of wrath, touching injustice and Mr. Butterby, to a select circle who gathered round him. Warm-hearted and generous, by fits and starts, was Roland Yorke; he had inherited it with his Irish blood from Lady Augusta. But meanwhile, where was Mr. Galloway? He did not make his appearance, and it was said he could not be found. Messenger after messenger was despatched to his office, to his house; and at length Mr. Butterby went himself. All in vain; his servants knew nothing about him. Jenkins, who had the office to himself, thought he must be “somewhere in the town,” as he had not said he was going out of it. Mr. Butterby went back crest-fallen, and confessed that, not to take up longer the time of their worships unnecessarily, the case must be remanded to the morrow. “We will take bail,” said the magistrates, before the application was made. “One surety will be sufficient; fifty pounds.” At that, Mr. Roland, who by this time was standing in a sullen manner against a pillar of the court, his violence gone, and biting his nails moodily, made a rush to the front again, heeding little who he knocked down in the process. “I’ll be bail,” he cried eagerly. “That is, Lady Augusta will--as I am not a householder. I’ll hunt her up and bring her here.” He was turning in impetuous haste to “hunt up” Lady Augusta, when Hamish Channing imperatively waved to him to be still, and spoke to the bench. “My father’s security will be sufficient, I presume?” “Quite so.” Since Mr. Channing’s incapacity, power to sign and to act for him had been vested in Hamish; and the matter was concluded at once. The court poured out its crowd. Hamish was on the point of taking Arthur’s arm, but was pushed aside by Roland Yorke, who seized upon it as if he could never make enough of him. “The miserable idiots! to bring such a charge against you, Arthur! I have been half mad ever since I heard of it.” “Thank you, Yorke. You are very kind--”