Mesdames Haylark and Worthington became almost inseparable and extremely confidential, and on one occasion, when Mistress Haylark complained of a pain in her stomach and would have gone upstairs for “a thimbleful” of ginger wine, Dame Worthington vehemently protested, and forthwith introduced her old family specific from “the top shelf, behind the pickles,” forty drops of which, slightly diluted with water, effectually relieved all pain, and threw them both into such high spirits, that they continued discussing family and household affairs and secrets, until long after the church clocks had chimed the hour of midnight. But while Charley is recovering, under the combined effects of love, philosophy, and kind treatment, the Directors of the India House have been assiduous in their endeavours to trace out the true depositor of the packet of counterfeit bank notes. They went to work very quietly and coolly, but despite their own, and the hawk-eyed exertions of clever detectives—Captain Jack among the rest—they were wholly unable to fasten solid suspicion upon any one of their employées. An anonymous note, evidently written in a counterfeit hand, and signed “R,” startled them. Charley was the person pointed at by the unknown correspondent; but Sir Richard Warbeck and others who were consulted would not believe the insinuation, and the matter seemed to drop indefinitely. Charley, being fully recovered in body, returned to the India House as usual, and was received with tokens of much respect by all the directors. He attempted to appear gay; but all his endeavours were vain. He was not the same person he had been, and could not look any one fairly in the face without evident effort. There was a worm at his heart gnawing deeply, daily and hourly. From being a gay, light-hearted youth, of fresh colour and dashing manner, as he had always been before he knew Phillip Redgill, he now appeared like a person of age, on whose shoulders a heavy weight was pressing. Some thought it might arise from an unfortunate disappointment in love affairs; but these hints he parried with a faint smile, and attempted to joke in his old manner. One morning a young, bright-faced clerk was called into the Directors’ Council Room, and returned therefrom looking very pale, and with large tears standing in his eyes. “Good day, Charley,” said he to Warbeck, with much emotion. “I’m going; they don’t want me any longer. I’ve done nothing wrong, you know; they lay no charge against me, yet I feel certain that they have formed wrong suspicions against me, on account of the unfortunate packet of counterfeit notes that was substituted for good ones in the safe a month or two ago. Good day, my boy; _this_ will break my poor old mother’s heart. She has no one to depend upon but me. I am lost, ruined, disgraced!” The youth leaned upon the counter, shading his face, and tears flowed from him fast and hot.