"Why, the money they say he got from the bank. Bah! the Ormsby's are a bad lot. I'd rather deal with the Jews. It was his grandfather he thought he was cheating, perhaps--that isn't like stealing from other people. But this I will say, Swinton: your wife, she might have told a lie to save the boy." "I don't understand you," said the clergyman, haughtily. "Well, I'll be more plain. He altered his grandfather's checks, and kept the money for himself, didn't he? Well, if my boy had done the same, and my wife hadn't the sense or the heart to shield him, I'd--" He broke off abruptly. "What you are saying is all double Dutch to me," cried the rector, hoarsely. "You don't mean to tell me that the bank people have set about that cock-and-bull story of repudiated checks? I told them they were wrong. I thought they understood." "Ay, you told them they were wrong; but your wife told them they were right--at least, that's how the story goes. The boy altered her checks, and robbed his grandfather--if you call it robbing. I call it getting a bit on account by forcing the hand of a skinflint. For old Herresford is worse than the Ormsbys, worse than the Jews. He has owed me money for eighteen months, and I've got to go to the courts to force him to pay. I've had a boy go wrong myself; but he's working with me now as straight and good a lad as man could wish. Look them straight in the face, Swinton, and tell them from the pulpit that the boy's fault in swindling his grandfather out of what ought to be his, was wiped out by his service to his country. It was a damned fine piece of pluck, sir. I take off my hat to the boy; and, if there's to be any service of burial, or anything of that sort, I'll come." The rector parted from his candid friend, still unable to grasp the situation thoroughly. That the bank had spread abroad the false report seemed certain. He hurried, fuming with indignation, to call on Mr. Barnby and have the matter out with him. But it was past three, and the doors of the bank were shut. If his wife had seen Barnby, there must have been some misunderstanding. He hurried home, to find the house silent and deserted. In the study, the light was fading and the fire had gone out. He was about to ring for the lamp to be lighted when a stifled sob revealed the presence of someone in the room. "Mary!" His wife was on the hearth-rug, with her arms spread out on the seat of the little tub chair, and her head bowed down. She heard him come in, but did not raise her head. "Mary, Mary, you must not give way like this," he murmured, as he bent over her and raised her gently. "Tears will not bring him back, Mary." "It isn't that--it isn't that!" she cried, as he lifted her to her feet. "Oh, I am so wretched! I must confess, John--something that will make you hate and loathe me."