“I neither expected it nor believed it when I was told. I inquired of Parkes, the beadle, what unusual thing was going on, seeing so many people about the doors, and he answered that you were under examination. I laughed at him, thinking he was joking.” Arthur made no reply. “What can I do for you?” repeated Hamish. “You can leave me to myself, Hamish. That’s about the kindest thing you can do for me to-night.” Hamish did not take the hint immediately. “We must have the accusation quashed at all hazards,” he went on. “But my father thinks Galloway will withdraw it. Yorke says he’ll not leave a stone unturned to make Helstonleigh believe the money was lost in the post-office.” “Yorke believes so himself,” reproachfully rejoined Arthur. “I think most people do, with the exception of Butterby. Confounded old meddler! There would have been no outcry at all, but for him.” A pause. Arthur did not seem inclined to break it. Hamish had caught up a bit of whalebone, which happened to be lying on the drawers, and was twisting it about in his fingers, glancing at Arthur from time to time. Arthur leaned against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, and, in like manner, glanced at him. Not the slightest doubt in the world that each was wishing to speak out more freely. But some inward feeling restrained them. Hamish broke the silence. “Then you have nothing to say to me, Arthur?” “Not to-night.” Arthur thought the “saying” should have been on the other side. He had cherished some faint hope that Hamish would at least _acknowledge_ the trouble he had brought upon him. “I could not help it, Arthur; I was driven to my wit’s end; but I never thought the reproach would fall upon you,” or words to that effect. No: nothing of the sort. Constance was ascending the stairs as Hamish withdrew. “Can I come in, Arthur?” she asked. For answer, he opened the door and drew her inside. “Has Hamish spoken of it?” she whispered. “Not a word--as to his own share in it. He asked, in a general way, if he could serve me. Constance,” he feverishly added, “they do not suspect downstairs, do they?” “Suspect what?” “That it was Hamish.” “Of course they do not. They suspect you. At least, papa does. He cannot make it out; he never was so puzzled in all his life. He says you must either have taken the money, or connived at its being taken: to believe otherwise, would render your manner perfectly inexplicable. Oh, Arthur, he is so grieving! He says other troubles have arisen without fault on our part; but this, the greatest, has been brought by guilt.” “There is no help for it,” wailed Arthur. “I could only clear myself at the expense of Hamish, and it would be worse for them to grieve for him than for me. Bright, sunny Hamish! whom my mother has, I believe in her heart, loved the best of all of us. Thank you, Constance, for keeping my counsel.” “How unselfish you are, Arthur!”