The group would have formed a study for a Wilkie. The disturbed dinner-table; the consternation of those assembled at it; Mr. Channing (whose sofa, wheeled to the table, took up the end opposite his wife) gazing around with a puzzled, stern expression; Mrs. Channing glancing behind her with a sense of undefined dread; the pale, conscious countenances of Arthur and Constance; Tom standing up in haughty impetuosity, defiant of every one; the lively terror of Charley’s face, as he clung to Arthur; and the wide-opened eyes of Annabel expressive of nothing but surprise—for it took a great deal to alarm that careless young lady; while at the door, holding it open for Arthur, stood Judith in her mob-cap, full of curiosity; and in the background the two policemen. A scene indeed, that Wilkie, in the day of his power, would have rejoiced to paint.

Arthur, battling fiercely with his outraged pride, and breathing an inward prayer for strength to go through with his task, for patience to endure, put Charley from him, and went into the hall. He saw not what was immediately around him—the inquiring looks of his father and mother, the necessity of some explanation to them; he saw not Judith and her curious face. A scale was, as it were, before his eyes, blinding them to all outward influences, except one—the officers of justice standing there, and the purpose for which they had come. “What on earth has happened, Master Arthur?” whispered Judith, as he passed her, terrifying the old servant with his pale, agitated face. But he neither heard nor answered; he walked straight up to the men.

“I will go with you quietly,” he said to them, in an undertone. “Do not make a disturbance, to alarm my mother.”

We cannot always have our senses about us, as the saying runs. Some of us, I fear, enjoy that privilege rarely, and the very best lose them on occasion. But that Arthur Channing’s senses had deserted him, he would not have pursued a line of conduct, in that critical moment, which was liable to be construed into an admission, or, at least, a consciousness of guilt. In his anxiety to avert suspicion from Hamish, he lost sight of the precautions necessary to protect himself, so far as was practicable. And yet he had spent time that morning, thinking over what his manner, his bearing must be if it came to this! Had it come upon him unexpectedly he would have met it very differently; with far less outward calmness, but most probably with indignant denial. “I will go with you quietly,” he said to the men.

“All right, sir,” they answered with a nod, and a conviction that he was a cool hand and a guilty one. “It’s always best not to resist the law—it never does no good.”

He need not have resisted, but he ought to have waited until they asked him to go. A dim perception of this had already begun to steal over him. He was taking his hat from its place in the hall, when the voice of Mr. Channing came ringing on his ear.

“Arthur, what is this? Give me an explanation.”

Arthur turned back to the room, passing through the sea of faces to get there; for all; except his helpless father, had come from their seats to gather round and about that strange mystery in the hall, to try to fathom it. Mr. Channing gave one long, keen glance at Arthur’s face—which was very unlike Arthur’s usual face just then; for all its candour seemed to have gone out of it. He did not speak to him; he called in one of the men.

“Will you tell me your business here?” he asked courteously.

“Don’t you know it, sir?” was the reply.

“No, I do not,” replied Mr. Channing.

“Well, sir, it’s an unpleasant accusation that is brought against this young gentleman. But perhaps he’ll be able to make it clear. I hope he will. It don’t give us no pleasure when folks are convicted, especially young ones, and those we have always known to be respectable; we’d rather see ‘em let off.”

Tom interrupted—Tom, in his fiery indignation. “Is it of stealing that bank-note of Galloway’s that you presume to accuse my brother?” he asked, speaking indistinctly in his haste and anger.

“You have said it, sir,” replied the man. “That’s it.”

“Then I say whoever accuses him ought to be—”

“Silence, Thomas,” interrupted Mr. Channing. “Allow me to deal with this. Who brings this accusation against my son?”

“We had our orders from Mr. Butterby, sir. He is acting for Mr. Galloway. He was called in there early this morning.”

“Have you come for my son to go with you to Mr. Galloway’s?”

“Not there, sir. We have to take him straight to the Guildhall. The magistrates are waiting to hear the case.”

A dismayed pause. Even Mr. Channing’s heart, with all its implicit faith in the truth and honour of his children, beat as if it would burst its bounds. Tom’s beat too; but it was with a desire to “pitch into” the policemen, as he had pitched into Pierce senior in the cloisters.

Mr. Channing turned to Arthur. “You have an answer to this, my son?”

The question was not replied to. Mr. Channing spoke again, with the same calm emphasis. “Arthur, you can vouch for your innocence?”

Arthur Channing did the very worst thing th............