He read it twice over before he could understand it; indeed, he did not do so fully then. His surprise appeared to be perfectly genuine, and so Mr. Galloway thought it. “Has this letter been sent to you, sir? Has any money been sent to you?” “This has been sent to me,” replied Mr. Galloway, tossing the twenty-pound note to him. “Is it the one that was taken, Channing?” “How can I tell, sir?” said Arthur, in much simplicity. And Mr. Galloway’s long doubts of him began to melt away. “_You_ did not send the money--to clear yourself?” Arthur looked up in surprise. “Where should I get twenty pounds from?” he asked. “I shall shortly have a quarter’s salary from Mr. Williams: but it is not quite due yet. And it will not be twenty pounds, or anything like that amount.” Mr. Galloway nodded. It was the thought which had struck himself. Another thought, however, was now striking Arthur; a thought which caused his cheek to flush and his brow to lower. With the word “salary” had arisen to him the remembrance of another’s salary due about this time; that of his brother Hamish. Had Hamish been making this use of it--to remove the stigma from him? The idea received additional force from Mr. Galloway’s next words: for they bore upon the point. “This letter is what it purports to be: a missive from the actual thief; or else it comes from some well-wisher of yours, who sacrifices twenty pounds to do you a service. Which is it?” Mr. Galloway fixed his eyes on Arthur’s face and could not help noting the change which had come over it, over his bearing altogether. The open candour was gone: and in its place reigned the covert look, the hesitating manner, the confusion which had characterized him at the period of the loss. “All I can say, sir, is, that I know nothing of this,” he presently said. “It has surprised me as much as it can surprise any one.” “Channing!” impulsively exclaimed Mr. Galloway, “your manner and your words are opposed to each other, as they were at the time. The one gives the lie to the other. But I begin to believe you did not take it.” “I did not,” returned Arthur. “And therefore--as I don’t like to be played with and made sport of, like a cat tormenting a mouse--I think I shall give orders to Butterby for a fresh investigation.” It startled Arthur. Mr. Galloway’s curiously significant tone, his piercing gaze upon his face, also startled him. “It would bring no satisfaction, sir,” he said. “Pray do not. I would far rather continue to bear the blame.” A pause. A new idea came glimmering into the mind of Mr. Galloway. “Whom are you screening?” he asked. But he received no answer. “Is it Roland Yorke?” “Roland Yorke!” repeated Arthur, half reproachfully. “No, indeed. I wish every one had been as innocent of it as was Roland Yorke.” In good truth, Mr. Galloway had only mentioned Roland’s name as coming uppermost in his mind. He knew that no suspicion attached to Roland. Arthur resumed, in agitation: