TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF.
"It will stick in my gizzard for ever. I can see that. An awful clog,
it is, when a fellow has dropped into mischief once in his life, and
repented and atoned for it, that it must be cast in his teeth always;
cropping up at any hour, like a dead donkey in the Thames; I might as
well have stayed at Port Natal!"
Such was the inward soliloquy of Mr. Roland Yorke as he bent over his
writing after that overwhelming question of Hurst's, "Did you take
it?" Hurst, really grieved at having hurt his feelings, strove to
smooth away what he had said.
"I beg your pardon, old fellow," he whispered. "On my honour I spoke
without thought."
"I dare say you did!" retorted Roland.
"I meant no harm, Roland; I did not indeed. Nothing connected with the
past occurred to me."
"You know it _did_," was the answer, and Roland turned his grieved
face full on Hurst. "You know you wanted to bring up that miserable
time when I stole the twenty-pound note from old Galloway, and let the
blame of it fall on Arthur Channing. Because I took that, you think I
have taken this!"
"Hush! You'll have them hear you, Yorke."
"That's what you want. Why don't you go and tell them?" demanded
Roland, who was working into a passion. "Proclaim it aloud. Ring the
bell, as the town-crier does at home on a market-day. Call Greatorex
and Brown and Jenner up from their desks. Where's the good of taunting
me in private?"
Hurst kept his head down and wrote on in silence, hoping to allay the
storm he had inadvertently provoked. In spite of his protestations, he
_had_ spoken in reference to that past transaction, and the tone
showed the truth to Roland; but still he had spoken thoughtlessly.
Roland, as he believed, was no more guilty of this present loss than
he himself was; and he felt inclined to clip his tongue out for its
haste.
Pushing his hair from his hot face, biting his lips, drawing deep
breaths in his anger and emotion, stood Roland. Presently the pen was
dashed down on the parchment before him, blotting it and defacing it
for use, but of course that went for nothing, and Roland stalked to
the desk of Mr. Bede Greatorex.
"I wish to say, sir, that I did not steal the cheque."
The words took Mr. Bede Greatorex by surprise. But he had by this time
become pretty well acquainted with Roland and his impulsive ways; he
liked him in spite of his faults as a clerk; otherwise he would never
have put up with them. A pleasant smile crossed his lips as he
answered; answered in jest.
"You know the old French proverb, I dare say, Mr. Yorke: 'Qui s'excuse
s'accuse'?"
Roland made nothing of French at the best of times: at such as these,
every pulse within him agitated to pain, it was about as intelligible
as Hebrew. But, had he understood every word of the joking
implication, he could not have responded with more passionate
earnestness.
"I did not touch the cheque, sir; I swear it. I never saw it after you
took it from this room, or knew where you put it, or anything. It
never once came into my thoughts."
"But why do you trouble yourself to say this?" asked Mr. Bede
Greatorex, speaking seriously when he noticed the anxious tone, the
emotion accompanying the denial. "No one thought of supposing you had
taken it."
"Hurst did, sir. He accused me."
Hurst, in his vexation, pushed his work from him in a heap. Of all
living mortals, surely Roland was the simplest! he had no more tact
than a child. Mr. Bede Greatorex looked from one to the other.
"I did nothing of the kind," said Hurst, speaking quietly. "The fact
is, Roland Yorke can't take a joke. When he made that remark about his
uncle, Sir Richard, I said to him, 'Did you take the cheque?' speaking
in jest of course; and he caught up the question as serious."
"There, go to your place, Mr. Yorke," said Bede.
"I'd not do such a thing as touch a cheque for the world; or any other
money that was not mine: no, not though it did belong to old Dick
Yorke," earnestly reiterated Roland, keeping his ground.
"Of course you would not. Don't be foolish, Mr. Yorke."
"You believe me, I hope, sir."
"Certainly. Do go to your desk. I am busy."
Roland went back to it now, his face brighter. And Bede Greatorex
thought with a smile how like a boy he was, in spite of his
eight-and-twenty years, and his travels in Port Natal. These
single-minded natures never grow old, or wise in the world's ways.
Another minute, and a stranger had entered the office. And yet, not
quite a stranger; for Bede Greatorex had seen him some few years
before, and Hurst and Roland Yorke knew him at once. It was Mr.
Butterby; more wiry than he used to be, more observant about the keen
eyes. He had come in reference to the loss of the cheque, and saluted
Mr. Bede Greatorex who looked surprised and not best pleased to see
him. Jelf, the officer expected, was a man in whom Bede had
confidence; of this one's skill he knew nothing.
"It was Sergeant Jelf whom we desired to see," said Bede, speaking
with curt sharpness.
"It was," amicably replied Mr. Butterby. "Jelf got a telegram this
morning, and had to go off unexpected. I'm taking his place for a
bit."
"Have you changed your abode from Helstonleigh to London?"
"Only tempory. My headquarters is always at Helstonleigh. And now
about this matter, Mr. Bede Greatorex?"
"I think we need not trouble you. It can wait until Sergeant Jelf
returns."
"It might have to wait some time then," was Mr. Butterby's answer.
"Jelf is off to Rooshia first; St. Petersburgh; and it's hard to say
how long he'll stay there or where he may have to go to next. It's all
right, sir; I've been for this ten minutes with Mr. Greatorex, have
learnt the particulars of the case, and got his instructions."
Bede Greatorex bit his lip. This man, associated in his mind with that
past trouble--the death of John Ollivera, who had been so dear to him,
who was so bitterly regretted still--was rather distasteful to Bede
than otherwise, and for certain other reasons he would have preferred
Jelf. There seemed however no help for it, as his father had given the
man his instructions.
Mr. Butterby turned his attention on the clerks. As a preliminary step
to proceedings, he peered at them one by one under his eyebrows, while
apparently studying the maps on the walls. Hurst favoured him with a
civil nod.
"How d'ye do, Butterby?" said Roland Yorke. "You don't get much
fatter, Butterby."
Mr. Butterby's answer to this was to stare at Roland for a full
minute; as if he could not believe his own eyes at seeing him there.
"That looks like Mr. Roland Yorke!"
"And it is him," said Roland. "He is a clerk here. Now then,
Butterby!"
"I beg to state that I have full confidence in all my clerks,"
interposed Mr. Bede Greatorex.
"Just so," acquiesced the detective. "Mr. Greatorex senior thinks the
same. But it is requisite that I should put a few questions to them,
for all that. I can't see my way clear until I shall have ascertained
the movements of every individual clerk this house employs, from the
time the cheque was put into your desk yesterday, sir. And I mean to
do it," he concluded with equable composure.
He was proceeding to examine the clerks, holding a worn note-book in
his hand to pencil down any answer that might strike him, when Bede
Greatorex again interposed, conscious that this might be looked upon
by some of them as an unpardonable indignity.
"I cannot think this necessary, Mr. Butterby. We place every
confidence in our clerks; I repeat it emphatically. Mr. Brown and Mr.
Jenner have been with me for some years now; Mr. Hurst and Mr. Yorke
are gentlemen."
"I know who they two are; knew them long before you did, sir; and
their fathers too. Dr. Yorke, the late prebendary, put some business
into my hands once. But now, just leave this matter with me, Mr. Bede
Greatorex. Your father has done me the honour to leave it in my hands;
and, excuse me for saying it, so must you. All these four, now present
to hear you mention their names with respect, understand just as well
that what I do is an ordinary matter of form the law's officers
require to be gone through, as if I paid 'em the compliment to say
so."
"Oh, very well," said Bede, acquiescing more cheerfully. "Step in to
my private room with me for a moment first, Mr. Butterby."
He held the door open as he spoke; but, before the officer could turn
to it, Mr. Greatorex came in. Bede shut the door again, and nodded to
Mr. Butterby as much as to say, "Never mind now."
And so the questioning of the clerks began. Mr. Greatorex stayed for a
short while to listen to it, and talked to them all in a friendly
manner, as if to show that the procedure was not instituted in
consequence of any particular suspicion, rather as an investigation
in which the house, masters and clerks, were alike interested. The
head-clerk went on with his work during the investigation as calmly as
if Mr. Butterby had been a simple client; the questions put to him, as
to his own movements on the previous day, he answered quietly, calmly,
and satisfactorily. Roland never wrote a single line during the whole
time; he did nothing but stare; and made comments with his usual
freedom. When his turn came to receive the officer's polite attention,
he exploded a little and gave very insolent retorts, out of what Mr.
Butterby saw was sheer contrariness.
The inquiry narrowed itself to this side of the house, the rest of the
clerks being able to prove, individually, that they had not been near
Mr. Bede's room during the suspicious hours of the previous day.
Whereas it appeared, after some considerable sifting, that each one of
these four could have entered it at will, and unseen. What with the
intervening dinner-hour, and sundry outdoor commissions, every one of
them had been left alone in the office separately for a greater or
less period of time. It also came out that, with the exception of
Jenner, each had been away from the office quite long enough to go to
the bank with the cheque, or to send it and secure the money. Roland
Yorke, taking French leave, had stayed a good hour and a quarter at
his dinner, having departed for it at a quarter past one. Mr. Brown
had been out on business for the house from one till half-past two;
and Mr. Hurst, who went to the stamp office, was away nearly as long.
In point of fact, the chief office-keeper had been little Jenner, who
came back from dinner at half-past one.
"And now," said the detective, after putting up the pocketbook, in
which he had pencilled various of the above items of intelligence, "I
should like to get a look at this desk of yours, Mr. Bede Greatorex."
Bede led the way to his room, and shut himself in with the detective.
While apparently taking no notice whatever of the questions put to his
clerks, keeping his head bent over some papers as if his very life
depended on their perusal, he had in reality listened keenly to the
answers of all. Handing over the key of his table-desk, he allowed the
officer to examine it at will, and waited. He then sat down in his own
handsome chair of green patent leather and motioned the other to a
seat opposite.
"Mr. Butterby, I do not wish any further stir made in this business."
Had Mr. Butterby received a cannon-ball on his head he could scarcely
have experienced a greater shock of surprise, and for once made no
reply. Bede Greatorex calmly repeated his injunction, in answer to the
perplexed gaze cast on him. He wished nothing more done in the matter.
"What on earth for?" cried Mr. Butterby.
"I shall have to repose some confidence in you," pursued Mr. Bede
Greatorex. "It will be safe, I presume?"
Butterby quite laughed at the question. Safe! With him! It certainly
would be. If the world only knew the secrets he held in his bosom!
"And yet I can but trust you partially," resumed Bede Greatorex. "Not
for my own sake; I have nothing to conceal, and should like things
fully investigated; but for the sake of my father and family
generally. Up to early post-time this morning I was more anxious for
Jelf, that he might take the loss in hand, than ever my father was."
Bede Greatorex paused. But there came no answering remark from his
attentive listener, and he went on again.
"I received a private note by this morning's post which altered the
aspect of things, and gave me a clue to the real taker of the cheque.
Only a very faint clue: a suspicion rather; and, that, vague and
uncertain: but enough to cause me, in the doubt, to let the matter
drop. In fact there is no choice left for me. We must put up with the
loss of the money."
Mr. Butterby sat with his hands on his knees, a favourite attitude of
his: his head bent a little forward, his eyes fixed on the speaker.
"I don't quite take you, Mr. Greatorex," said he. "You must speak out
more plainly."
Bede Greatorex paused in hesitation. This communication was
distasteful, however necessary he might deem it, and he felt afraid of
letting a dangerous word slip inadvertently.
"The letter was obscure," he slowly said, "but, if I understand it
aright, the proceeds of the cheque have found their way into the hands
of one whom neither my father nor I would prosecute. To do so would
bring great pain upon us both, perhaps injury. The pain to my father
would be such that I dare not show him the letter, or tell him I have
received it. For his sake, Mr. Butterby, you and I must both hush the
matter up."
Mr. Butterby felt very much at sea. A silent man by nature and habit,
he sat still yet, and listened for more.
"There will be no difficulty, I presume?"
"Let us understand each other, sir. If I take your meaning correctly,
it is this. Somebody is mixed up in the affair whose name it won't do
to bring to light. One of the family, I suppose?"
Mr. Butterby had to wait for an answer. Bede Greatorex paused ere he
gave it.
"If not an actual member of the family, it is one so nearly connected
with it, that he may almost be called such."
"It's a man, then?"
"It is a man. Will you work with me in this, so as to keep suspicion
from my father? Tacitly let him think you are doing what you can to
investigate the affair. When no result is brought forth, he will
suppose you have been unsuccessful."
"Of course, sir, if you tell me I am not to go on with it, why I
won't, and it is at an end. Law bless me! Lots of things are put into
our hands one day; and, the next, the family comes and says, Hush 'em
up."
"So far good, Mr. Butterby. But now, I wish you, for my own
satisfaction, to make some private investigation into it. Quite
secretly, you understand: and if you can learn anything as to the
thief, bring the news quietly to me."
Mr. Butterby thought this was about as complete a contradiction to
what had gone before as it had been ever his lot to hear. He took
refuge in his silent gaze and waited. Bede Greatorex put his elbow on
the table and his hand to his head as he spoke.
"If I were able to confide to you the whole case, Mr. Butterby, you
would see how entirely it is encompassed with doubts and difficulties.
I have reason to fancy that the purloiner of the cheque out of this
desk must have been one of the clerks in my room. I think this for two
reasons; one is, that I don't see how anybody else could have had
access to it."
"But, sir, you stood it out to their faces just now that you did _not_
suspect them."
"Because it will not do for them to know that I do. I assure you, Mr.
Butterby, this is a most delicate and dangerous affair. I wish to my
heart it had never happened."
"Do you mean that the clerk, in taking it--if he did take it--was
acting as the agent of some other party?"
Bede Greatorex nodded. "Yes, only that."
"But _that's_ enough to transport him, you know," cried Butterby,
slightly losing the drift of the argument.
"If we could bring him to book, yes. But that must not be done. I
_don't_ see who else it could have been," added Bede, communing with
himself rather than addressing Mr. Butterby; and his face wore a
strangely perplexed look.
"Could any of the household--the maidservants, for instance--get into
this here room?" asked Mr. Butterby.
"There's not one of them would dare to risk it in the daytime. They
are in the other house. No, no; I fear we must look to one of the
young men in the next room."
Mr. Butterby nodded with satisfaction: matters seemed to be taking a
more reasonable turn.
"Let's see; there's four of them," he began, beginning to tell the
clerks off on his fingers. "The manager, Brown, confidential, you
said, I think----"
"I did not say confidential," interrupted Bede Greatorex. "I said we
placed great confidence in him. There's a distinction, Mr. Butterby."
"Of course. Then there's the little man, Jenner; and the others, Hurst
and Yorke. Have you any doubt yourself as to say one of them?" quickly
asked Mr. Butterby, looking full at the lawyer.
Bede Greatorex hesitated. "I cannot say I have. It would be so wrong,
you know, to cast a doubt on either, when there is not sufficient
cause; nothing but what may be a passing, foundationless fancy."
"Speak out, Mr. Bede Greatorex. It's all in the day's work. If there is
really nothing, it won't hurt him; if there is, I may be able to
follow it up. Perhaps it's one of the two gentlemen?"
"If it be any one of the four, Mr. Hurst."
The detective so far forgot his good manners as to break into a low
whistle.
"Mr. Hurst! or Mr. Yorke, do you mean?" he cried, in his surprise.
"Not Mr. Yorke, certainly. Why should you think of him?"
"Oh, for nothing," carelessly answered Butterby. "Hurst seems an
upright young man, sir."
"It is so trifling a doubt I have of him, the lifting of a straw, as
may be said, that I should be sorry to think he is not upright. Still,
I have reason for deciding that he is the most likely, of the four,
for doubt to attach to."
At that moment, the gentleman in question interrupted them--Josiah
Hurst; bringing a message to Mr. Bede Greatorex. An important client
was waiting to see him. Mr. Butterby took a more curious look at the
young man's countenance than he had ever done in the old days at
Helstonleigh.
"The lawyer's wrong," thought he to himself. "He is no thiever of
cheques, he isn't."
"I shall be at liberty in one minute, Mr. Hurst. Shut the door. You
understand?" he added in a low tone to the detective, as they stood up
together in parting. "All that I 'have said to you must be kept
secret; doubly secret from my father. He must suppose you at work,
investigating; whereas, in point of fact, _the thing must drop_. Only,
if you can gain any private information, bring it to me."
Mr. Butterby answered by one of his emphatic nods. "You see there's
nothing come up yet about that other thing," he said.
"What other thing?"
"The death of Mr. Ollivera."
"And not likely to," returned Bede Greatorex. "That was over and done
with at the time."
"Just my opinion," said the detective. "Jenner was his clerk in
chambers.".
"Yes. A faithful little fellow."
"Looks it. Who's the other one--Mr. Brown?"
"I can only tell you that he is Mr. Brown; I know nothing of his
family. We have had him three or four years."
"Had a good character with him, I suppose? Knew where he'd been, and
all that?"
"Undoubtedly. My father is particular. Why do you ask?"
"Only because he is the only one in your room that I don't know
something of. Good morning, Mr. Bede Greatorex."
Bede shut the door, and Mr. Butterby walked away, observing things
indoors and out with a keen eye, while he ruminated on what he had
heard. Sundry reports, connected with the domestic life of Bede
Greatorex, were familiar to his comprehensive ears.
"It's a rum go, this," quoth he, making his comments "He meant his
wife, he did; I'd a great mind to say so. Hush it up? of course they
must. And Madam keeps the forty-four pounds. But now--_does_ he
suspect it might have been one of the clerks helped her to it, or was
it only a genteel way of stopping my questions as to how the 'member
of the family' could have got indoors to the desk? She grabbed his
key, she did, and took out the cheque herself: leastways I should say
so. Stop a bit, though. Who cashed it at the bank? Perhaps one of 'em
did help her. 'Twasn't Hurst, I know nor little Jenner, either. Don't
think it was young Yorke in spite of that old affair at Galloway's.
T'other, Brown, I don't know. Anyway," concluded Mr. Butterby, his
thoughts recurring to Bede Greatorex, and his wife, "he has got his
torment in her; and he shows it. Never saw a man so altered in all my
life: looks, spirits, manners: it's just as though there was a blight
upon him."
That the presence of the police-agent in the office had not been
agreeable to the clerks, will be readily understood. It had to be
accepted for an evil; as other evils must be for which there is no
help. Roland Yorke felt inclined to resent it openly, and thought the
fates were against him still, as they had been at Port Natal. What
with that unlucky question of Hurst's and the appearance of Butterby
on the scene, both recalling the miserable escapade of years ago that
he would give all the world to forget, Roland, alike hot-headed and
hot-hearted, was in a state of mind to do any mad thing that came
uppermost. And the morning wore away.
"Why don't you go to dinner, Mr. Yorke?"
The question came from the manager. Roland, in his perplexity of mind
and feelings, had unconsciously let the usual time slip by. Catching
up his hat, he tore through the street at speed until he reached the
bank, into which he went with a burst.
"I want to see one of the principals."
What with the haste the imperative demand, and the imposing stature
and air, Roland was at once attended to, and a gentleman, nearly as
little as Jenner came forward.
"Look here," said Roland. "Just you bring me face to face with the
fellow who cashed that cheque yesterday. The clerk, you know."
"Which cheque?" came the very natural question from the little
gentleman, as he gazed at the applicant.
"The one there's all this shindy over at Greatorex and Greatorex's.
Drawn out in favour of old Dick Yorke."
Of course it was not precisely the way to go about things. Before
Roland's request was complied with, a little information was requested
as to what his business might be, and who he was.
"I am Mr. Roland Yorke."
"Any relation to Sir Richard Yorke?"
"His nephew by blood; none at all by friendliness. Old Dick--but never
mind him now. If you'll let me see the clerk, sir, you will hear what
I want with him."
The clerk, standing at elbow behind the counter, had heard the
colloquy. Roland dashed up to him so impulsively that the little
gentleman could with difficulty keep pace.
"Now, then," began Roland to the wondering clerk, "look at me--look
well. Am I the man who presented that cheque yesterday?"
"No, sir, certainly not," was the clerk's reply. "There's not the
least resemblance."
"Very good," said Roland, a little calming down from his fierceness.
"I thought it well to come and let you see me, that's all."
"But why so?" asked the principal, thinking Sir Richard Yorke's
nephew, though a fine man, must be rather an eccentric one.
"Why! why, because I am in Bede Greatorex's office and we've had a
policeman amongst us this morning, looking us up. They say the cheque
was brought here by a tall fellow with black whiskers. As that
description applies to me, and to none of the others, I thought I'd
come and let you see me. That's all. Good morning."
Dashing out in the same commotion that he had entered, Roland, still
neglecting his dinner, went skimming back to the house of Greatorex
and Greatorex. Not to enter the office, but to pay a visit to Mrs.
Bede's side of it.
Not very long before this hour, Mr. Bede Greatorex, all the cares of
his business on his shoulders, not the least of them (taking it in all
its relations) being the new one connected with the abstracted cheque
went upstairs for luncheon and a few minutes' relaxation. He found his
wife full of _her_ cares. Mrs. Bede Greatorex had cards out for that
afternoon, bidding the great world to a Kettle-drum and she was
calculating what quantity of ices and strawberries to order in, with
sundry other momentous questions.
The rooms were turned upside-down. A vast crowd was expected, and
small articles of impeding furniture, holding fragile ornaments, were
being put out of the way, lest they should come to grief in the
turmoil.
"Yes, that quantity of ice will be sufficient; and be sure take care
that you have an abundance of strawberries," concluded Mrs. Bede
Greatorex to the attendant, who had been receiving her orders.
"Chocolate? Of course. Where's the use of asking senseless questions?
Bede," she added, seeing her husband standing there, "I know how you
detest the smell of chocolate, saying it makes you as sick as a dog,
and brings on headaches; but I cannot dispense with it in my rooms.
Other people give it, and so must I."
"Give what you like," he said wearily "What is it you are going to
hold? A ball?"
"A ball in the afternoon! Well done, Bede! It's a drum."
"The house is never free from disturbance, Louisa," he rejoined, as a
man pushed by with a table.
"You should let me live away from it. And then you'd not smell the
chocolate. And the doors would not be impeded forever with
carriages, as you grumble they are. With a house in Hyde Park----"
"Hush!" said Bede in a whisper: "What did I tell you the other
day?--That our expenses are so large, I could not live elsewhere if I
would: Don't wear me out with this everlasting theme, Louisa."
It was not precisely the hearth for a min, oppressed with the world's
troubles, to find refuge in; neither was she the wife. Bede sighed in
very weariness, and turned to go, away, thinking how welcome to him,
if he could but get transplanted to it, would be the corner of some
far-off desert, never before trodden by the foot of man.
A great noise on the stairs, as if a coach-and-six were coming up in
fierce commotion, followed by a smart knocking at the room door. Bede
turned to escape, thinking it might possibly be the advance guard of
the Drum. Nobody but Mr. Roland Yorke. And Roland (who had come up on
a vain search for Miss Channing) seeing his master there, at once
began to tell of where he had just been and for what purpose. To keep
his own counsel on matter whatever, would have been extremely
difficult to Roland.
"It is said, you know, Mr. Bede Greatorex, that the man, who cashed
the cheque and got the money, was a tall fellow with black whiskers so
I thought it well to go and show myself. I am tall," drawing up his
head; "I've got black whiskers," pushing one side forward with his
hand; "and nobody else in your room answered to the description."
"It was very unnecessary, Mr. Yorke. You were in Port Natal."
"In Port Natal!" echoed Roland, staring. "What has Port Natal to do
with this?"
Bede Greatorex slightly laughed. In his self-absorption, he had
suffered his mind to run on other things.
"As to unnecessary--I don't think so, after what that ill-natured
Hurst said. And perhaps you'd not, sir, if you knew all," added simple
Roland, thinking of Mr. Galloway's banknote. "Anyway, I have been to
the bank to show myself."
"What did the bank say to you?" questioned Bede Greatorex, his tone
one of light jest.
"The bank said I was not in the least like the fellow; he was tall,
but not as tall as me, and they are nearly sure he had a beard as well
as whiskers. I thought I'd tell you, sir."
Mrs. Bede Greatorex, listening to this with curious ears, inquired
what the trouble was, and heard for the first time of the loss of the
cheque, the probable loss of the forty-four pounds. Had Mr. Butterby
been present to mark her surprise, he might have put away his opinion
that she was the recipient alluded to by Bede Greatorex, and perhaps
have mentally begged her pardon for the mistaken thought.
"Will you come to my kettle-drum, Mr. Roland?"
"No, I won't," said Roland. "Thank you all the same," he added a
minute after, as if to atone for the bluntness of the reply. "I've
been put out today uncommonly, Mrs. Bede Greatorex; and when a fellow
is, he does not care for drums and kettles."
However, when the kettle-drum was in full swing about five o'clock in
the afternoon and the stairs were crowded with talkers and trains,
Roland, thinking better of it, elbowed his way up amidst. People who
did not know him, thought he must be from the Court at least; the Lord
Chamberlain, or some such great man, for Roland had a way of holding
his own and tacitly asserting himself, like nobody else. He caught
sight of Gerald, who averted his head at once; he saw Mrs. Hamish
Channing, and she was the only guest he talked to. Roland was again
looking for Annabel. He found her presently in the refreshment room,
seeing that Miss Jane did not make herself ill with strawberries and
cream.
Into her ear, very much as though it had been a rock of refuge, Roland
confided his wrongs; Mr. Hurst's semi-accusation of him in regard to
the loss, his errand to the bank, and in short all the events of the
morning.
"I couldn't have done it by _him_," said Roland. "Had he made a fool
of himself when he was young and wicked, I could no more have flung it
in his teeth in after-years, to twist his feelings, than I could twist
yours, Annabel. When I've been repenting of the mad act ever since;
never going to my bed at night or rising in the morning, without
thinking of it and--dashing it: but I was going to say another word:
and hoping and planning how best to recompense every soul that
suffered by it! It was too bad of him."
"Yes it was," warmly answered Annabel, her cheeks flushing with the
earnestness of her sympathy. "Roland, I never liked that Josiah
Hurst."