"Ask Mr. Rodd to come in."
The cashier entered shyly. In his dark suit, with his black stock and stiff carriage, he made no figure, where Arthur, or even Clement, would have shone. But there were women in Aldersbury who said that he had fine eyes, eyes with something of a dog's gentleness in them; and Arthur so far agreed that he dubbed him a dull, mechanical dog, and often made fun of him as such. But perhaps Arthur did not always see to the bottom of things.
Ovington pushed the decanter and a glass towards him. "A glass of wine, Rodd," he said genially. He was not of those who undervalued his cashier, though he knew his limitations. "The bank!" he said.
"And those who have stood by it!" Betty added softly.
Rodd drank the toast with a muttered word.
"Mr. Rodd has not the same reason to be thankful that we have," Betty continued carelessly, holding her knitting up to the lamp.
"Why not?" Her father did not understand.
"Why," innocently, as she lowered the knitting again, "he does not stand to lose anything, does he?"
"Except his place," the cashier objected, his eyes on his glass.
"Just so," the banker rejoined. "And in that event," moved to unusual frankness, "we should have been all out together. And Rodd might not have been the worst off, my girl.
"Exactly," Betty said. "I'm sure that he would take care of that."
The cashier opened his mouth to speak, but checked himself, and drank off his wine. Then, as he rose, "If you know where Mr. Clement is, sir----"
"I don't. I can't think what has become of him," the banker explained.
"He went out about four, and since then--hallo! That's some one in a hurry. It sounds like a fire."
A vehicle had burst in on the evening stillness. It came clattering at a reckless pace up Bride Hill. It passed the bank, it rattled noisily around the corner of the Market Place, and pounded away down the High Street.
"More likely some one hastening to get out of danger," said Betty. "_A sauve qui peut_, Mr. Rodd--if you know what that means."
The clerk, with a flushed cheek, avoided the question. "It might be some one trying to catch the seven o'clock coach, sir," he said.
"Very likely. And if so he's failed, for he's coming back again. Ay, here he comes, and he stopping here, by Jove! I hope that nothing's wrong."
The vehicle had, indeed, stopped abruptly before the house. They heard some one alight on the pavement, a latchkey was thrust into the door.
"It's Clement!" the banker exclaimed, his eyes on the door. "I hope he does not bring bad news! Well, lad?" as Clement in his overcoat, his hat on his head, appeared in the doorway. "What is it? Is anything wrong?"
"Very much wrong!" his son replied curtly, and he closed the door behind him. He was pale, and his splashed coat and neck-shawl tied awry, no less than his agitated face, confirmed their fears.
"Out with it, lad! What is it? his father asked, fearing he knew not what.
"Bad news, sir!" was the answer. "I'm sorry to say I bring very bad news!"
"What?"
"That loan of Mr. Griffin's----"
"The twelve thousand? Yes?"--anxiously--"well?"
"It's a fraud, sir! A cursed fraud!"
There was a tense silence. Then, "Impossible!" the banker exclaimed.
But he grasped a chair to steady himself. His face had turned grey.
"The Squire knows nothing of it!" Clement struck his open hand on the back of a chair. "He never signed the transfer! He never gave any authority for the loan!"
"No, no, that's impossible!" Ovington straightened himself with a sigh of relief. What mare's nest, what bee in the bonnet, was this? The lad was dreaming--must be dreaming. "Impossible!" he repeated. "I saw it, man, and read it! And I know the old man's signature as well as I know my own. You must be dreaming."
"I am not, sir!" Clement answered, and added bitterly, "It was Arthur who was dreaming! Dreaming or worse, d--n him!"--the pent-up excitement of the evening finding vent at last, and the sight of his father's stricken face whetting his rage. "He has robbed, ay, robbed his uncle, and dishonored us! That is what he has done, sir. I am not dreaming! I wish to heaven I were!"
The banker no longer protested. "Well--tell us!" he said weakly.
"It's hard on you, sir----"
"Never mind me! Tell me what you know." They stood round Clement, amazed and shocked, fearing the worst and yet incredulous, while he, his weary face and travel-stained figure at odds with the lighted room and the comfort about him, told his story. The banker listened. He still hoped, hoped to detect some flaw, to perceive some misunderstanding--so much, so very much, hung upon it. But even on his mind the truth at last forced itself, and monstrous as the story, incredible as Arthur's action still appeared, he had at last to accept it and its consequences--its consequences!
He seemed to grow years older as he listened, but when Clement had done, and the whole shameful story was told, he made no comment. The position, indeed, was no worse than it had been twenty-four hours before. He might still hope against hope, that, by putting a bold face on matters, and by a dexterous use of his resources, he might ride out the storm. But the reaction from a triumphant confidence was so sudden, the failure of his recent expectations so overwhelming, that even his firm spirit yielded. He sank into his chair. Betty laid her hand on his shoulder and whispered some word of comfort in his ear, but he said nothing.
It was Clement who spoke the first word. "I am going after him," he said, his tone hard and practical. "I have thought it out, and by posting all night I may be in London by noon to-morrow, and I may intercept him either at the brokers' or at the India House before he has sold the stock. In that case I may be in time to stop him."
"Why?" the banker asked, looking up. "What have we to do with him? Why should we stop him?"
"For our own sakes as well as his," Clement answered firmly. "For our own good name, which is bound up with his. Think, think, sir, of the harm it will do us if there is a prosecution--and the old man swears that he will not acknowledge the signature! Besides I have promised to stop him--if I can. If I am too late to do that, and he has sold the stock, I can still get possession of the money, and it must be our business to return it to the owner without the loss of an hour. Of an hour, sir!" Clement repeated earnestly. "We must repudiate this transaction from the outset. We must wash our hands of it at once, if it be only to clear our own name."
The banker looked dazed. "But," he said, as if his mind were beginning to work again, "why should we--take all this trouble?" He hesitated, then he began again. "We have done nothing. We are innocent. Why should we----"
"Stop him?"
"Ay, or be in such a hurry to return the money? It is no fault of ours if it does come to our hands. And, remember, if it lies with us only a week"--he looked at his son, his face troubled--"only a week, the position is such----"
"No! no!" Clement cried, and for once he spoke preemptorily. "Not for a day, father, not for an hour! And when you have thought it over as I have, when you have had time to think it over, you will see that. You will be the first, the very first, to see that, and to say that we must have no part or share with Bourdillon in this; that if we must go down we will go down with clean hands. To avail ourselves of this money, even for a day, and though it would save the bank twice over, would be to make us accomplices----"
The banker stood up. "Right!" he said firmly. "You are right, lad!" He drew a deep breath, the color returned to his face. He laid his hand on Clement's shoulder. "You are quite right, my boy, and I wasn't myself when I said that. You shall have no reason to blush for your father. You are quite right. We will repudiate the transaction from the first. We will have neither art nor part in it. We will return the money the moment it comes into your hands!"
"Thank God, sir, that you see it as I do."
"I do, I do! The money shall be paid over at once, though the shutters go up the next hour. And we will fight our battle as we must have fought it if this had never happened."
"With clean hands, at any rate, sir."
"Yes, lad, with clean hands."
"Oh, father, that's splendid!" Betty cried, and she pressed herself against him. "But as for Clement going, he must be worn out. Could not Mr. Rodd go?"
"Rodd will be of more use to you here," Clement said. "You will be short-handed as it is."
"We shall pay out the more slowly," the banker answered with grim humor.