But Arthur was already beyond hearing, having waved his adieu to Roland Yorke and his impetuous but warm-hearted championship. Anxious to get on with the task he had undertaken, he hastened home. Constance was in the hall when he entered, having just returned from Lady Augusta Yorke’s. His confidant throughout, his gentle soother and supporter, his ever ready adviser, Arthur drew her into one of the rooms, and acquainted her with what had occurred. A look of terror rose to her face, as she listened. “Hamish has done it!” she uttered, in a whisper. “This puts all doubt at an end. There are times--there have been times”--she burst into tears as she spoke--“when I have fondly tried to cheat myself that we were suspecting him wrongfully. Arthur! others suspect him.” Arthur’s face reflected the look that was upon hers. “I trust not!” “But they do. Ellen Huntley dropped a word inadvertently, which convinces me that he is in some way doubted there. She caught it up again in evident alarm, ere it was well spoken; and I dared not pursue the subject. It is Hamish who has sent this money.” “You speak confidently, Constance.” “Listen. I know that he has drawn money--papa’s salary and his own: he mentioned it incidentally. A few days ago I asked him for money for housekeeping purposes, and he handed me a twenty-pound note, in mistake for a five-pound. He discovered the mistake before I did, and snatched it back again in some confusion.” “‘I can’t give you that,’ he said in a laughing manner, when he recovered himself. ‘That has a different destination.’ Arthur! that note, rely upon it, was going to Mr. Galloway.” “When was this?” asked Arthur. “Last week. Three or four days ago.” Trifling as the incident was, it seemed to bear out their suspicions, and Arthur could only come to the same conclusion as his sister: the thought had already crossed him, you remember. “Do not let it pain you thus, Constance,” he said, for her tears were falling fast. “He may not call in Butterby. Your grieving will do no good.” “I cannot help it,” she exclaimed, with a burst of anguish. “How God is trying us!” Ay! even as silver, which must be seven times purified, ere it be sufficiently refined. CHAPTER XLVII. -- DARK CLOUDS.