And now
came this new fear of Mr. Butterby again!
Hamish's own footstep in the hall. Constance roused herself. He came
in, books under his arm, as usual, and his ever-gay face smiling. There
were times when Constance almost despised him for his perpetual
sunshine. The seriousness which had overspread Hamish at the time of
Charley's disappearance had nearly worn away. In his sanguine
temperament, he argued that not finding the body was a proof that
Charley was yet alive, and would come forth in a mysterious manner one
of these days.
"Have I kept you waiting tea, Constance?" began he. "I came home by way
of Close Street, and was called into Galloway's by Roland Yorke, and
then got detained further by Mr. Galloway. Where's Arthur?"
"He has undertaken some copying for Mr. Galloway, and is busy with it,"
replied Constance in a low tone. "Hamish!" raising her eyes to his
face, as she gathered resolution to speak of the affair: "have you
heard what has happened?"
"That some good fairy has forwarded a bank-note to Galloway on the
wings of the telegraph? Roland Yorke would not allow me to remain in
ignorance of that. Mr. Galloway did me the honour to ask whether I had
sent it."
"You!" uttered Constance, regarding the avowal only from her own point
of view. "He asked whether _you_ had sent it?"
"He did."
She gazed at Hamish as if she would read his very soul. "And what
did--what did you answer?"
"Told him I wished a few others would suspect me of the same, and count
imaginary payments for real ones.
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