It was a terrible thought. But who—who was the culprit? Careless as Oscar knew himself to be, it did not yet seem to him that he would readily have put so large a sum of cash into the hands of a young clerk, and yet he had never suspected one of them of the smallest deflection from rectitude, and certainly he had given it to somebody. He looked at the date of the false receipt. It was just after the death of Curtis, when the office was in some confusion and the pressure of work heavy. He might well have overlooked the memory of the transaction. And yet he did seem to have some floating impression of a talk with somebody about the payment of the bill, and he distinctly remembered filing the receipt and making the entry in the ledger. But to whom had he given the money? He pulled out the tiny pocket diary he carried, where he just dotted down notes of things to be told to Sheila. He found the day in question, and noted the initial C. in one corner. That meant that Cyril had been helping them. He remembered he had told Sheila of the condescension of the great ’Varsity man! And then with a start it came over him. Could it have been Cyril who had paid the bill? Or at least who had taken the money to do so, and brought back the supposed receipt? Oscar’s heart beat thick and fast. He buried his face in his hands and thought. Slowly there seemed to come to him some such recollection, but was it only imagination? He remembered the pressure of that day. He remembered his uncle coming in and out with various orders. He remembered the money being given him with instructions to pay the bill at once; but there absolute memory failed him. Yet Oscar thought he would remember had he entrusted another with the task, though had Cyril offered in his easy way to go and pay the bill, most likely he would have agreed without a second thought. As he pondered the matter over and over, it seemed to grow clearer in his mind that Cyril had taken the matter into his own hands; but the very thought of this struck him with a sort of terror. Cyril was a son of the house. He was still the favourite of his parents. They would never, never believe such a thing of him. It would be almost impossible even to suggest it. And then Oscar could not be certain that he remembered the circumstance, only fleeting visions passed before his mind’s eye, together with the conviction that he would not have so easily forgotten the matter had not Cyril or North been his substitute. If he had made over the money to a brother clerk, he felt certain he would have recollected the matter. And whilst he was in the midst of these troubled cogitations, who should come in but Cyril himself. Oscar looked up eagerly. “You are the very person I was wanting,” he said, not pausing to consider whether or not open speech were the most diplomatic way of treating this problem. “Cyril, do you remember those days after Curtis died when you came and helped in the office?”