AT FAULT.
It was easier for Mr. Bede Greatorex to say to the police-agents "Drop
the investigation," than it was for them to do it. Had he been the
sole person to whom they were responsible, the thing would have lain
in a nutshell; but their employer was his father. And Mr. Greatorex
was pushing discovery to an issue as he had never pushed anything yet.
He looked up details himself; he went backwards and forwards to
Scotland Yard; he was altogether troublesome.
As the days went on, and Mr. Butterby brought forth no result, only
presented himself once in a way to say there was none to bring, Mr.
Greatorex grew angry. Surely such a thing was never heard of!--as for
a cheque to be stolen out of one of their desks at midday, carried to
the bank and openly cashed, and for the police to say they could not
trace the offender! Mr. Greatorex avowed that the police ought to be
ashamed to confess it; that, in his opinion, they must be getting
incapable of their duties.
One thing had struck Mr. Greatorex in the matter--that his son Bede
seemed not to be eager for the investigation: if he did not retard it,
he certainly did not push it. Perhaps the best word to express Bede's
state of mind in regard to it, as it appeared to Mr. Greatorex, was
indifference. Why was this? Bede ought to be as anxious as himself.
Nay, more so: it was from his possession and his desk that the cheque
was taken. Mr. Greatorex supposed that the laxity in regard to
business affairs, which appeared latterly to have been creeping upon
his son, must be extending itself even to the stealing of money. Was
he more seriously ill than he allowed them to know? The fear, that it
might be so, crossed the mind of Mr. Greatorex.
The solicitor sat one morning in his private room, Jonas Butterby
opposite to him. The detective was there in answer to a peremptory
mandate sent by Mr. Greatorex to Scotland Yard the previous day.
Whether Mr. Butterby was responsible to himself alone for the progress
or non-progress of the investigation; or, if not, whether he had
imparted a hint at headquarters of Bede Greatorex's private
communication to him, was locked up within his own breast. One thing
appeared clear--that he was at liberty to do as he pleased.
"It is not the loss of the money; it is not that the sum of forty-four
pounds is of so much moment to me that I must needs trace it out, and
if possible regain it," Mr. Greatorex urged, his fine, fresh, honest
face bent full on the detective, sternness in its every line. "It is
the unpleasantness of knowing that we have a thief about us: it is the
feeling of insecurity; the fear that the loss will not stop here.
Every night of my life when the offices close, I seem to prepare
myself for the discovery that some other one has taken place during
the day."
"Not at all an unlikely thing to happen," acknowledged Mr. Butterby,
who probably felt himself less free under existing circumstances than
he usually was, and therefore spoke with deprecation.
"That the cheque must have been taken by one of the clerks attached to
my son's room, I think there can be little doubt of. The difficulty
is----"
"Mr. Bede thinks so himself," interrupted Butterby. "He charged me
specially to look after them; after one of 'em in particular."
"Which was it?"
"Hurst."
"Hurst!" repeated Mr. Greatorex in surprise.
"But Mr. Bede is mistaken, sir. It was no more Hurst than it was me."
Instincts are subtle. And one came unbidden into the mind of the
detective officer as he spoke--that he had made a mistake in repeating
this to Mr. Greatorex. The truth was--carrying within him his private
instructions, and the consciousness that they must be kept private--he
found these interviews with the head of the firm slightly
embarrassing.
"Why should he suspect Hurst if he----"
The door opened, and the person in question appeared at it--Bede
Greatorex. Catching a glimpse of the detective's head, he was going
out of it a vast deal quicker than he had entered; but his father
stopped him.
"Bede! Bede! Come in. Come in and shut the door. Here's a fine thing I
have just heard--that you are suspecting one person in particular of
having taken the cheque. Over and over again, you have told me there
was nobody in particular to be suspected."
A lightning glance from Bede Greatorex's fine dark Spanish eyes
flashed out on the detective. It said as plainly as glance could
speak, "How dare you presume to betray my confidence?"
That gentleman sat unmoved, and nodded a good morning with his
customary equanimity.
"Mr. Greatorex--doing me the honour to call upon me to report
progress--observed that he fully thought it was one of the clerks in
your room we must look to, sir," spoke Butterby in a slow calm tone.
"I told him your opinion was the same; and you had charged me to look
well after them, especially Mr. Hurst. That was all."
Bede Greatorex bit his lip in anger. But the communication might have
been worse.
"What _is_ there against Hurst?" impatiently asked Mr. Greatorex.
"Nothing at all," said Bede quietly. "If I said to Mr. Butterby that
one of my clerks might have taken the cheque, it was only because
access to my room was more obtainable by them than by anybody else I
can think of. And of the four, Hurst spends the most money."
"Hurst has the most money to spend," observed Mr. Greatorex.
"Of course he has. I make no doubt Hurst is as innocent as I."
This was very different from suspecting Hurst, from desiring that he
should be specially looked after, and perhaps Mr. Greatorex felt the
two accounts the least in the world contradictory. The keen-sighted
observer sitting by, apparently sharpening the point of his broken
lead-pencil, noticed that the eyes of Bede Greatorex never once went
openly into the face of his father.
"If it was my case," thought the officer, "I should tell him the truth
out and out. No good going about the bush this way, saying he suspects
one and suspects another, when he does not suspect 'em: far better
that old Greatorex should hear the whole and see for himself that it
_can't_ be gone into. He don't care to worrit the old gentleman:
that's what it is."
That is just what it was. But Mr. Butterby was not right in all his
premises.
"I am fully persuaded that every clerk on my side the house is as
innocent as are those on yours, sir," spoke Bede Greatorex, a kind of
tremor in his tone; which tremor did not escape the officer's notice,
or that it was caused by anxious, painful eagerness: and that astute
man knew in a moment that old Greatorex must not have his suspicions
turned actively on Bede's employés. "I believe it was Butterby who
first mentioned them. Upon that, I ran them over in my mind, and
remembered that Hurst was the only one spending much money--he lives
in fashionable lodgings as a gentleman. Was it not so, Mr. Butterby?"
The detective was professionally prepared for most accidents.
Therefore when Bede Greatorex turned upon him with startling rapidity,
a second flash darting forth from his dark eyes, he never moved a
muscle.
"You are right, sir."
"Bede," said Mr. Greatorex, in a still tone of meaning, "if the same
facility for getting access to your room attached to the clerks on my
side the house, I should not say to you so positively that they were
not guilty. You seem to resent the very thought that suspicion can
attach to them."
"Not at all, father. Perhaps I felt vexed that Hurst's name should
have been mentioned to you without grounds."
"Understand me, Mr. Butterby," spoke the elderly gentleman sharply. "I
expect to have this matter better attended to than it has been. And I
repeat to you that I think the clerks in my son's room should be--I do
not say suspected, but sufficiently thought of. It is monstrous to
know that a theft like this can have been openly committed in a
professional man's house, and you officers should avow yourselves at
fault. We may be losing some of our clients' deeds next."
The detective glanced at Mr. Bede Greatorex, and was answered, as he
thought, by the faintest signs in return. It was not the first time he
had been concerned in cases where sons wished things kept from
knowledge of fathers.
"We don't give it up, sir. Allow us more time, and perhaps we may
satisfy you better."
"I shall expect you to do so," returned Mr. Greatorex with sufficient
emphasis. And the officer rose to quit his presence. "Go round by the
other door to my room and wait."
Surely these words were breathed into Mr. Butterby's ear! Faint though
the whisper was he could not have fancied it. Bede Greatorex was
crossing his path at the moment, as if he wished to look from the
window.
Fancy or not, the officer acted upon it. Going round by the street to
the professional entrance, and so on up the passage to the private
room. When Bede Greatorex returned to it, he saw him seated against
the wall, underneath the map of London.
"You did wrong to mention Mr. Hurst to my father," Bede began with
imperative quickness, as he slipped the bolt of the middle door.
"That's as it may be," was the rejoinder, cool as usual. "If there's
not some outlet of suspicion given to your father, it will be just
this, Mr. Bede Greatorex--that he'll make one for himself. Leastways,
that's my opinion."
"Be it so. I do not want it to take the direction of my clerks."
"He lays the blame on us: says we are lax, or else incapable; and it
is only natural he should think so. Anyway there's no harm done about
Mr. Hurst: you made it right with him there. Do you suspect Hurst
still, sir?"
"Yes. At least more than I do any one of the others."
Mr. Butterby put his hands on his knees and bent a little forward. "If
you wish me to do you any service in this, sir, you must not keep me
quite so much in the dark. What I want to get at, Mr. Bede Greatorex,
is the true reason of your pitching upon Hurst yourself."
"I cannot give it to you," said Bede promptly. "What I told you at our
first interview, I repeat now--that the suspicion against him is but a
faint one. Still it is sufficient to raise a doubt; and I have no
reason to doubt the other three. Jenner is open and honest as the day;
Brown valuable and trustworthy; and Mr. Yorke must of course be
exempt."
"Oh, of course he must," dryly acquiesced the detective with a cough.
He knew he was sure of Roland in this case, but he thought Bede
Greatorex might not have spoken so confidently had he been cognizant
of a certain matter connected with the past.
"I would not much mind answering for Jenner myself," remarked Mr.
Butterby. "Brown seems all right, too.
"Brown's honesty has been sufficiently proved. Very large sums have
passed through his hands habitually, and he has never wronged us by a
shilling. Had he wished to help himself, he would have done it before
now: he has had the opportunity."
"Then that leaves us back at Hurst again. Where is your objection,
sir, to the doubt of him being mentioned to your father?"
A kind of startled look crossed Bede's face: a look of fear: and he
spoke hastily.
"Have you forgotten what I said? That the fact of Mr. Hurst's knowing
he was suspected (assuming he is guilty) would be attended with
danger. Awful danger, too. If it were possible to disclose all to my
father, he would forfeit a great deal that he holds dear in life,
rather than incur it."
"Well it seems to me that I can be of little use in this matter," said
Butterby, turning somewhat crusty. "I have had dangerous secrets
confided to me in my lifetime, sir; and the parties they were told of
are none the wiser or the worse for it yet."
"And I wish I could confide this to you," said Bede, steadily and
candidly. "I'd be glad enough to get it out of my keeping, for I don't
know what to do with it. If no one but myself were concerned; if I
could disclose it to you without the risk of injuring others you
should hear it this next minute. For their sakes, Mr. Butterby, my
lips are tied. I dare not speak."
"Does he mean his wife, or doesn't he?" thought Butterby. And the
question was not solvable. "I'll look after Hurst a bit," he said
aloud. "Truth to tell, I considered him the safest of them all, in
spite of your opinion, Mr. Bede Greatorex, and have let him be. He
shall get a little of my private attention now. And so shall one of
the others," the detective mentally added.
"Unsuspected by Hurst himself," enjoined Bede, a shade of anxiety in
his voice.
Could Mr. Butterby have been suspected of so far forgetting
professional dignity as to indulge in winks, it might have seemed that
he answered by one, as he rose from his chair.
"I'll just take a look in upon them now," he remarked. "And let me
advise you, sir, to get your father in a more reasonable frame of
mind, if possible. If he calls in fresh aid, as he threatens, there
might be the dickens to pay."
Bede Greatorex crossed the room hastily, as though he meant to guard
the middle door, and spoke in a low tone.
"I do not care that they should know you have been with me. Not for
the world would I let it come to their knowledge that I doubt either
of them."
"Now _do_ you suppose that I am a young gosling?" demanded Butterby.
"You have done me the honour to confide this private business to my
hands, Mr. Bede Greatorex, and you may safely leave it in 'em. After
being at the work so many years, there's not much left for me to be
taught."
He departed by the passage, treading lightly, and halted when he came
to the clerks' door. He was in deep thought. This matter which, as he
phrased it, Mr. Bede Greatorex had done him the honour to put in his
hands, was no such great matter after all; a mere trifle in
professional quarters: but few things had so much puzzled the
detective. Not in his way to discovery: that, as it seemed to him,
would be very easy, could he pursue it openly. Bede Greatorex puzzled
him; his ambiguous words puzzled him; the thing itself puzzled him. In
most cases Mr. Butterby could at least see where he was; in this he
stood in a sea-encompassed fog, not understanding where he was going,
or what he was in search of.
Giving the swing-door a dash backwards, as though he had just entered,
he went into the room. Mr. Brown was at his desk, Roland Yorke at his;
but the other two were absent. So if the visit had been intended as a
special one to Josiah Hurst, it was a decided failure.
When was the great Butterby at fault? He had just looked in upon them
"in passing," he said, to give the good-morrow, and enquire how they
relished the present state of the thermometer, which _he_ should
pronounce melting. How did Mr. Yorke like it?
Mr. Yorke, under the circumstances of not knowing whether he stood on
his head or his heels, had not thought about the thermometer. Since
the receipt of a letter that morning, containing the news that one,
whom he cared for more than a brother, might probably be coming to
London shortly on a visit, Roland had been three parts mad with joy.
He was even genial to the intruder, his bête noire.
"Is it you, Butterby? How are you getting on, Butterby? Take a stool
if you like, Butterby."
"Can't stop," said Butterby. "Just meant to give a nod round and go
out again. Not come in on business today. You look spruce, Mr. Yorke."
"I've got on my Sunday suit," answered Roland--who in point of fact
was uncommonly well got-up, and had a rosebud in his button-hole.
"Carrick's tailor has not a bad cut. You have heard of red-letter
days, old Butterby: this is one for me. One should not put on one's
every-day coat on such occasions: they don't come too often."
"Got a fortune bequeathed?" enquired Mr. Butterby.
"It's better than that," said enthusiastic Roland, who in these
moments, when his heart and affections were touched, could but be more
impulsively genuine than ever. "Somebody's coming to London; somebody
that _you_ know, Butterby."
"Mr. Galloway, perhaps."
"No; you are wrong this time," returned Roland, not in the least taken
aback: though perhaps the detective, to judge by his significant tone,
meant that he should be. "You'd not see me dressed up for him. There
are two men in Helstonleigh I'd put on shirtsleeves to welcome rather
than a good coat: the one is old Galloway, the other William Yorke.
Guess again."
Instead of doing anything of the sort, by which perhaps his
professional reserve might have been compromised, Mr. Butterby turned
his attention on the manager. Pursuing his work steadily, he had taken
no heed of Mr. Butterby, beyond a civil salute at first.
"You've not heard more of this mysterious loss, I suppose?"
"Nothing more, sir," was Mr. Brown's answer, looking up full at the
speaker, perhaps to show that he did not shrink from intercourse with
a detective officer. "It seems strange, though, that we should not."
"Thieves are clever when they are professional ones; and I've got to
think it was no less a man did the job for Mr. Greatorex," said
Butterby, in quite a fatherly tone of confidence. "There has been a
regular band of 'em at work lately in London; and in spite of opinions
when I was here last, I say they might have gone in through the
passage straight and bold, and done the job easy, and you unsuspicious
young men, shut up in this here first room, never have heard a sound
of what was going on."
"I think that is how it must have been failing the other
thought--that Mr. Bede Greatorex took the cheque abroad and dropped
it," said the manager with quiet decision.
"Of course. And unless I'm mistaken, Mr. Bede thinks the same. I
should like to have three minutes' chat with you some evening, Mr.
Brown, all by our two selves. You are naturally anxious for discovery,
so am I: there's no knowing but what something or other may come out
between us."
Perhaps to any eye save the watchful one of a police-officer, the
slight hesitation before replying might have passed unnoticed. Mr.
Brown had no particular wish to be questioned; it was no affair of
his, and he thought the detective and Mr. Bede Greatorex quite enough
to manage the matter without him. But when his answer came, it was
spoken readily.
"Whenever you please. I am generally at home by eight o'clock."
He gave his new address--Mrs. Jones's. At which the crafty detective
expressed surprise, inwardly knowing the very day and hour when Mr.
Brown had moved in.
"There! Do you live there? The Joneses and I used to be old
acquaintances; knew 'em well when they were at Helstonleigh. Knew
Dicky must be making a mess of it long before the smash came. You'll
see me then, Mr. Brown, one of these first evenings."
"Don't be in a hurry, Butterby," spoke Roland, who had been amusing
himself by trying how far he could tilt his stool backwards without
capsizing, while he listened. "It's not old Galloway, it's Arthur
Channing."
"Is there anything so remarkable in Arthur Channing's coming to
London? questioned Butterby.
"To me there is. I tell you it is a red-letter day in my life, and I
have not had many such since I sailed from Port Natal. If I were not
in this confounded old office, with one master in the next room and
another there"--flinging a ball of paper at the manager--"I should
sing and dance and leap my joy off. Three copies have I begun to take
of a musty old will, and spoilt 'em all. Brown says I'm out of my
senses; ask him."
"You never were famous for _not_ spoiling copies--or for particular
industry, either, you know, Mr. Yorke."
The rejoinder rather nettled Roland. "I'd rather be famous for nothing
than for what _you_ are famed for in Helstonleigh, Butterby--taking up
the wrong man. It was not your fault that Arthur Channing didn't get
transported."
"Nor yours," quietly retorted Mr. Butterby.
"There! Go on. Bring it all out. If you've come to do it, do it,
Butterby. I told you to, the other night. And when Arthur Channing is
in London, you put up a prayer every morning not to meet him at
Charing Cross. The sight of him couldn't be pleasant to your mind, and
passers-by might see your brow redden: which for a bold, fear-nothing
police-detect----"
"Is Mr. Bede Greatorex in?"
The interrupting questioner was the Reverend Henry William Ollivera.
As he entered, the first man his eyes fell on was Butterby. It was a
mutual recognition: and they had not met since that evening in
Butterby's rooms on the occasion of the clergyman's visit to
Helstonleigh.
Before a minute had well elapsed, as it seemed to the two spectators,
they were deep in that calamity of the past, recalling some of its
details, lamenting the non-success that had attended the endeavour to
trace it out. It did not much interest Roland, and his mind also was
filled to the brim with matter more agreeable. Apparently it did not
interest Brown the manager, for he kept his head bent on his work. In
the midst of it Bede Greatorex came in.
"I tell you, Mr. Officer, my faith has never wavered, or my opinion
changed," the clergyman was saying with emotion, scarcely interrupting
himself to nod a salutation to Bede. "My brother did not commit
suicide. He was barbarously murdered; as every instinct warned me at
the time, and warns me still. The waiting seems long; the time rolls
by, day after day, year after year: weariness has to be subdued,
patience cherished; but, that the hour of elucidation will come, is as
sure as that you and I stand here, facing each other."
"Mr. Greatorex told me that the Reverend Ollivera stood to his opinion
as strongly as he ever did," was the answering remark of the officer;
and it might be that there was a shade of compassion in his
tone--compassion for the mistaken folly of the man before him.
"It has occurred to me at times, that if I were a member of the
detective police, endowed with all the acuteness for the discovery of
crime that their occupation and (we may suppose) natural aptitude for
it must give, I should have brought the matter to light long ago. Do
not think I reflect on your individual skill or care, sir; I speak
generally."
"Ah!" said Mr. Butterby with complacent jocularity, "we all are apt to
picture to ourselves how much we'd do in other folks's skins."
"It is strange that you have never been able to find traces of the man
whose name was afterwards mixed up in the affair, Godfrey Pitman."
"There you are right, sir," readily avowed the officer. "I should
uncommonly like to come across that Godfrey Pitman on my own score:
setting aside anything he might have had to do with the late Mr.
Ollivera."
The clergyman quickly took up the words. "Do you think he had anything
to do with his death?"
"I don't go as far as that. It might have been. Anyway, as
circumstances stand at present, he seems the most likely to have had,
of all those who were known to have been in the house that evening."
Happening to raise his eyes, Mr. Brown caught those of Mr. Bede
Greatorex. They were fixed on the speaker with a kind of eager,
earnest light. To many a man it might have told the tale--that he,
Bede Greatorex, had also doubts of Pitman. But then, Bede Greatorex
had expressed his belief in the suicide: expressed it still. One thing
was certain, had Bede chosen to confess it--that Godfrey Pitman was in
his mind far oftener than the world knew.
"How is it that you have never found him?" continued Mr. Ollivera, to
Butterby.
"I don't know. We are not usually at fault for a tithe of the time.
But the man, you see, was under false colours; his face and his name
were alike changed."
"You think so?"
"_Think_ so!" repeated Mr. Butterby with a second dose of compassion
for the parson's intellect. "That mass of hair on his face was hardly
likely to be real. As to the name, Pitman, it was about as much his as
it was mine. However, we have not found him, and there's no more to be
made of it than that. Mr. Bede Greatorex asked me about the man the
other day, whether I didn't think he might have gone at once out of
the country. It happens to be what I've thought all along."
"I do not see what he could have against my brother, that he should
injure him," spoke the clergyman, gazing on vacancy, the dreamy look,
so often seen in them, taking possession of his eyes. "So far as can
be known, they were strangers."
"Now, sir, don't you run your head again a stone wall. Nobody says he
did injure him; only that it's within the range of possibility he
could have done it. As to being strangers, he might have turned out to
be one of Counsellor Ollivera's dearest friends, once his disguises
were took off."
Under the reproof, Mr. Ollivera drew in, and there was a short pause
of silence. He broke it almost immediately, to ask about the letter so
often mentioned.
"Have you taken care of the paper?"
"I have," said Mr. Butterby, rather emphatically. "And I mean to do
it, being permitted. This house wrote for it to be sent up, but I gave
Mr. Greatorex my reasons for wishing to keep it, and he charged me not
to let it go. If ever the time comes that that document may be of use,
Reverend Sir, it will be forthcoming."
As the officer went out, for there was nothing more to remain for, Mr.
Ollivera began speaking to Bede in a low tone. This conversation
lasted but a minute or two, and was over, Bede retiring to the other
room.
"Arthur Channing is coming to London, Mr. Ollivera."
That the interruption came from nobody but Roland, need not be
affirmed. He was the only one in the office who presumed to interlard
its business with personal matters. The clergyman, who was going out,
turned his head.
"You will have the opportunity of making his better acquaintance, Mr.
Ollivera. He is the noblest and grandest man the world ever saw. I
don't mean in looks--though he might compete for a prize on that
score--but for goodness and greatness. Hamish is at the top of the
tree, but Arthur caps him."
Arthur Channing and his qualities did not bear interest for Mr.
Ollivera just then; he had no time to attend to them. Saying a
pleasant word in answer, he departed. Almost close upon that, Sir
Richard Yorke came in, and went into the private room.
"Perhaps something has turned up about the cheque, and he's come to
tell it," cried idle Roland. "I say, Mr. Brown, did you ever hear how
they all keep up the ball about that Godfrey Pitman? Mrs. J. was
describing him to me the other night. She and Miss Alletha came
to an issue about his personal charms: the one saying his eyes were
blue, the other brown. Remembering the fable of the chameleon, I
decided they must have been green. I'd not like to joke about him,
though"--dropping his light tone--"if he really had a hand in John
Ollivera's death. What do you think?"
"What I think is this, Mr. Yorke. As the person in question has
nothing to do with my work or yours, I am content to let him alone. I
should be exceedingly obliged to you to get that copy done for me."
"I'll get it done," said ready Roland. "There are such interruptions
in this office, you see."
He was working away at a steaming pace, when Sir Richard Yorke came
forth again, talking with Bede Greatorex. Roland slipped off his
stool, and brought his tall self in his uncle's path.
"How are you, Sir Richard?"
Sir Richard's little eyes went blinking out, and he condescended to
recognize Roland.
"Oh, ah, to be sure. You are one of the clerks here! Hope you keep out
of debt, young man."
"I try to," said Roland. "I get a pound a week, and live upon it. It
is not much for all things. One has to enjoy champagne and iced turtle
through the shop-windows."
"Ah," said Sir Richard slowly, rubbing his hands together as if he were
washing them of undesirable connections, "this comes of being a rover.
You should do as Gerald does: work to keep up a position. I read an
able article in the _Snarler_ last night, which was pointed out to me
as Gerald Yorke's. He works to some purpose, he does."
"If Gerald works he spends," was on the tip of his tongue. But he kept
it in: it was rare indeed that his good-nature failed him. "How is
Vincent?" he asked.
Vincent was very well, Sir Richard vouchsafed to reply, and went out,
rubbing his hands still.
So, with one interlude or another, Roland's morning was got through.
When released, he went flying in search of Annabel Channing, to impart
to her the great news contained in her brother's letter.
She was not in the schoolroom. She was not in the dining-room. She
was not anywhere that Roland could see. He turned to descend the
stairs again more slowly than he had gone up, when Jane Greatorex came
running from the landing above.
"Jane! Jane! I told you you were not to go down."
The voice, calling after the child, would have been like Annabel's but
for a choking sound in it. He looked up and saw her: saw her face
inflamed with tears, heard the sobs of grief. It took Roland more
completely aback than any sight he had witnessed at Port Natal. The
face disappeared swiftly, and Miss Jane jumped into his arms in
triumph.
"Jenny, what is it?" he asked in a kind of dumb whisper, as if motion
were suddenly struck out of him. "What is amiss with Miss Channing?"
"It's through Aunt Bede. She puts herself into passions. I thought
she'd have hit her this morning. She told her she was not worth her
salt."
Roland's face grew white with indignation.
"Your Aunt Bede did!"
"Oh, it's nothing new," said the child carelessly. "Aunt Bede goes on
at her nearly as much every day."