It was quite clear to all present which of these courses Mr Aikman wished followed, and they unanimously decided that the most rigorous course was necessary in dealing with such a criminal. Mr Aikman was therefore deputed to lay the matter before the chief constable of the town, who, however, happened to have a personal acquaintance with the young clergyman, and a great liking for him as well, and not only scouted the idea of him stealing the bank note, but strongly urged Aikman to say nothing of the matter to his minister, whatever other means he might employ for the recovery of the note. Finding it impossible to move the deacon, the constable at length compromised the matter by agreeing to go with Aikman to the minister’s house—it was not a manse, but a little flat, up an outside stair—and see if Mr Morrison had any explanation to offer. They found the young clergyman at home by the bedside of his wife, who was almost a confirmed invalid, and had been rather weaker than usual for some days. The constable was moved at the sight of the young preacher’s pale and concerned expression as he hung over the invalid, but the deacon had no such qualms—he looked upon these as indications of guilt, and would have blurted out the charge in hearing of the sick wife but for a huge pinch on his arm by the constable, who at the same time quietly nodded to Morrison, and invited him to speak with them for a moment in the next room. “There is some difficulty about that £5 note which you paid away on Tuesday to Blackie, the grocer,” observed the constable, kindly; while the deacon, as a duty he owed to society, steadily speared the young preacher with his goggling eyes. “Would you mind saying where you got the note?” The righteous deacon had his reward, for the moment these words were uttered, a startled look came to the worn features of the minister, and his face flushed a deep crimson. “I scarcely know myself,” he at length responded, with considerable hesitation; “is it necessary that I should make that known? What has happened? Is there anything wrong with it? Is it a forged note?” “Oh, no; the note is good enough,” cried the deacon, sternly, still using his spears liberally; “as good as any ever put out by the Bank of Scotland. The lady who put it into the plate on Sunday was not likely to have a forged note in her pocket.” The young preacher started as if the deacon had run a knife into him. He seemed petrified, breathless, and dumb with astonishment. “I do not know what you mean, or what you are hinting at,” he at length replied; “but I know that the note you speak of could not possibly have been in any lady’s pocket on Sunday, seeing that it was then lying in my desk here, in this house.” “You’ll have to prove that,” derisively returned Aikman. “Where did you get it, and when?”