It was being opened now. Now--at the exact moment that Mr. Roland Yorke was giving vent to that friendly little wish, about the river and Mr. Butterby. Mr. Galloway had met a friend in the town, and had gone with him a few miles by rail into the country, on unexpected business. He had just returned to find the note, and to hear Jenkins’ account of Arthur’s arrest. “I am vexed at this,” he exclaimed, his tone betraying excessive annoyance. “Butterby has exceeded his orders.” Jenkins thought he might venture to put in a word for Arthur. He had been intensely surprised, indeed grieved, at the whole affair; and not the less so that he feared what he had unconsciously repeated, about a twenty-pound note paying Arthur’s debts, might have helped it on. “I feel as sure as can be, sir, that it was not Mr. Arthur Channing,” he deferentially said. “I have not been in this office with him for more than twelve months without learning something of his principles.” “The principles of all the Channings are well known,” returned Mr. Galloway. “No; whatever may be the apparent proofs, I cannot bring myself to think it could be Arthur Channing. Although--” Mr. Galloway did not say although _what_, but changed the topic abruptly. “Are they in court now?” “I expect so, sir. Mr. Yorke is not back yet.” Mr. Galloway walked to the outer door, deliberating what his course should be. The affair grieved him more than he could express; it angered him; chiefly for his old friend Mr. Channing’s sake. “I had better go up to the Guildhall,” he soliloquized, “and see if--” There they were, turning the corner of the street; Roland Yorke, Hamish, and Arthur; and the followers behind. Mr. Galloway waited till they came up. Hamish did not enter, or stop, but went straight home. “They will be so anxious for news,” he exclaimed. Not a word had been exchanged between the brothers. “No wonder that he shuns coming in!” thought Arthur. Roland Yorke threw his hat from him in silence, and sat down in his place at the desk. Mr. Galloway touched Arthur with his finger, motioned him towards the private room, and stood there facing him, speaking gravely. “Tell me the truth, as before God. Are you innocent or guilty? What you say shall not be used against you.” Quick as lightning, in all solemn earnestness, the word “innocent” was on Arthur’s lips. It had been better for him, perhaps, that he had spoken it. But, alas! that perplexity, as to how far he might venture to assert his own innocence, was upon him still. What impression could this hesitation, coupled with the suspicious circumstances, make upon the mind of Mr. Galloway? “Have you _no_ answer?” emphatically asked Mr. Galloway. “I am not guilty, sir.”