"Something amiss!" The Squire repeated the words in an indescribable tone. "That's what he calls it! Something amiss!"
Clement looked from one to the other. "If there is anything I can do?"
"You?" bluntly. "Why, you be one of them!"
"No!" Josina interposed. "No, father. He has no part in it! I swear he has not!"
But, "One of them! One of them!" the Squire repeated in the same stubborn tone, yet without lifting his voice.
"No!" Josina repeated as firmly as before; and the hand that rested on her father's shoulder slid round his neck. She held him half embraced.
"But he may tell you what has happened. He may explain, sir?"
"Explain!" the Squire muttered. Contempt could go no farther.
"Shall I tell him, sir?"
"You're a fool, girl! The man knows."
"I am sure he does not!" she said.
Again Clement thought that it was time to interpose, "Indeed I do not, sir," he said. "I am entirely in the dark." In truth, looking on what he did, seeing before him the unfamiliar room, the dark staring windows, and the old man so unlike himself and so like King Lear or some figure of tragedy, he was tempted to think the scene a dream. "If you will tell me what is the matter, perhaps I can help. Arthur left this morning for London. He went to raise the money with which he was entrusted----"
"Entrusted?" the Squire cried with something of his old energy. He raised his head and struck the floor with his stick. "Entrusted?
That's what you call it, is it?"
Clement stared. "I don't understand," he said.
"What did he tell you?" Josina asked. "For heaven's sake speak, Clement! Tell us what he told you."
"Ay," the Squire chimed in. "Tell us how you managed it. Now it's done, let's hear it." For the time scorn, a weary kind of scorn, had taken the place of anger and subdued him to its level.
But Clement was still at sea. "Managed it?" he repeated. "What do you----"
"Tell us, tell us--from the beginning!" Jos cried, at the end of her patience. "About this money? What did Arthur tell you? What did he tell you--this morning?"
Then for the first time Clement saw what was in question, and he braced himself to meet the shock which he foresaw. "He told us," he said, "what Mr. Griffin had consented to do--that he had given him securities for twelve thousand pounds for the use of the bank and to support its credit. He had the stock with him, and he received from the bank, in return for it, an undertaking to replace the amount two months after date with interest at seven per cent. It was thought best that he should take it to London himself, as it was so large a sum and time was everything. And he went by the coach this morning--to realize the money."
Josina shivered. "He took it without authority," she said, her voice low.
"He stole it," the Squire said, "out of that cupboard."
"Oh, but that's impossible, sir!" Clement replied with eagerness. He felt an immense relief, for he thought that he saw light. He took note of the Squire's condition, and he fancied that his memory, if not his mind, had given way. He had forgotten what he had done. That was it!
"That's impossible, sir," he repeated firmly. "He had a proper transfer of the stock--India Stock it was--signed and witnessed and all in order."
"Signed and witnessed?" the Squire ejaculated. "Signed and--signed, your grandmother! So that's your story, is it? Signed and witnessed, eh?"
But Clement was beginning to be angry. "Yes, sir," he said. "That is our story, and it is true." He thought that he had hit on the truth, and he clung to it. The Squire had signed and the next minute had forgotten the whole transaction--Clement had heard of such cases. "He had the transfer with him," he continued, "signed by you and witnessed by himself and--and Miss Griffin. I saw it myself. I saw the signatures, and I have seen yours, sir, often enough on a cheque to know it. The transfer was perfectly in order."
"In whose favor, young man?"
"Our brokers', sir."
The Squire flared up. "I did not sign it!" he cried. "It's a lie, sir!
I signed nothing! Nothing!"
But Josina intervened. She, poor girl, saw light. "Yes," she said, "my father did sign something--on Saturday after dinner. But it was a lease. I and Arthur witnessed it."
"And what has that to do with it?" the Squire asked passionately.
"What the devil has that to do with it? I signed a lease and--and a counterpart. I signed no transfer of stock, never put hand to it!
Never! What has the lease to do with it?"
But Josina was firm. "I am afraid I see now, sir," she said. "You remember that you signed a paper to try your pen? And I signed it too, father, by mistake? You remember? Ah!"--with a gesture of despair--"if I had only not signed it!"
The Squire groaned. He, too, saw it now. He saw it, and his head sank on his breast. "Forger as well as thief!" he muttered. "And a Griffin!"
And Clement's heart sank too as he met the girl's anguished eyes and viewed the Squire's bowed head and the shame and despair that clothed themselves in an apathy so unlike the man. He saw that here was a tragedy indeed, a tragedy fitly framed in that desolate room with its windows staring on the night and its air of catastrophe; a tragedy passing bank failures or the loss of fortune. And in his mind he cursed the offender.
But even as the words rose to his lips, doubt stayed them. There was, there must be, some mistake. The thing could not be. He knew Arthur, he thought that he knew Arthur; he knew even the darker side of him--his selfishness, his lack of thought for others, his desire to get on and to grow rich. But this thing Arthur never could have done!
Clement recalled his gay, smiling face, his frank bearing, his care-free eyes, the habit he had of casting back a lock from his brow.
No, he could not have done this thing. "No, sir, no!" he cried impulsively. "There is some mistake! I swear there is! I am sure of it."
"You've the securities?"
"Yes, but I am sure----"
"You're all in it," the Squire said drearily. And then, with energy and in a voice quivering with rage, "He's learned this at your d--d counter, sir! That's where it is. It's like to like, that's where it is. Like to like! I might ha' known what would happen, when the lad set his mind on leaving our ways and taking up with yours. I might ha'
known that that was the blackest day our old house had ever seen--when he left the path his fathers trod and chose yours. You can't touch pitch and keep your hands clean. You ha' stole my daughter--d--n you, sir! And you ha' taught him to steal my money. I mind me I bid your father think o' Fauntleroy, I never thought he was breeding up a Fauntleroy in my house." And, striking the table with all his old vitality, "You are thieves! thieves all o' you! And you ha' taught my lad to thieve!"
"That is not true!" Clement cried. "Not a word of that is true!"
"You ha' stole my daughter!"
Clement winced. She had told him, then.
"And now you ha' stole my money!"
"That, at least, is not true!" He held up his head. He stepped forward and laid his hand on the table. "That is not true," he repeated firmly. "Yon do not know my father, Mr. Griffin, though you may think you do. He would see the bank break a hundred times, he would see every penny pass from him, before he would do this that you say has been done. Your nephew told us what I have told you, and we believed him--naturally we believed him. We never suspected. Not a suspicion crossed my father's mind or mine. We saw the certificates, we saw the transfer, we knew your handwriting. It was in order, and----"
"And you thought--you ha' the impudence to tell me that you thought that I should throw thousands, ay, thousands upon thousands into the gutter--to save your bank?"
"We believed what we were told," Clement maintained. "Why not--as you put the question, sir? Your nephew had five thousand pounds at stake.
His share in the bank was at stake. He knew as well as we did that with this assistance the bank was secure. We supposed that for his sake and the sake of his prospects----"
"I don't believe it!" the Squire retorted. "I'll never believe it.
Your father's a trader. I know 'em, and what their notion of honesty is. And you tell me----"
"I tell you that a trader is nothing if he be not honest!" Clement cried hotly. "Honesty is to him what honor is to you, Mr. Griffin. But we'll leave my father's name out of this, if you please, sir. You may say what you like of me. I have deserved it."