Morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon was drawing towards its close. Roland Yorke had contrived to struggle through it, and be still living, in spite of the amount of work which was pressed upon him. Mr. Galloway had put on his spectacles and copied out several pages himself—a thing he rarely attempted. But he had gone out now, and had carried with him some letters to post.

“Yes!” grumbled Roland. “He can stretch his legs, but he takes good care I shall not stretch mine! Why couldn’t he send me with those letters? It’s my place to post them: it’s not his. Write, write, write! till my fingers are cramped, and my feet have no more feeling in them than the stool has! Why, I wouldn’t stop by myself in this horrid, musty, parchmented old place—Oh, it’s you, is it?”

This was addressed to the postman, who came in with the afternoon delivery of letters. Two. He handed them to Roland, and departed.

Of course Roland immediately began to scrutinize them: turning them over; critically guessing at the senders; playing with them at pitch and toss—anything to while away the time, and afford him some cessation from his own work. By these means he contrived to pass five minutes rather agreeably (estimating things by comparison), when Mr. Galloway’s servant entered.

“Is my master in, Mr. Roland?”

“Of course he’s not,” said Roland. “He’s gone gallivanting somewhere. He has all the pleasure of it, and I have all the work.”

“Will you please to give him this letter, then?” said the man. “The post has just left it at our house, so I brought it round.”

“What’s it brought round here for?” asked Roland.

“Because he ordered it to be done. He said he expected a letter would be delivered at the house by the afternoon post, and if it came I was to bring it to him at once. Good afternoon, sir.”

This little bit of information was quite enough for Roland. He seized the letter, as he had done the others, and subjected it to the same scrutiny. The address was written in a singular hand; in large, print-looking letters. Roland satisfied his curiosity, so far as the outside of the letter could do it, and then rose from his stool and laid the three letters upon Mr. Galloway’s desk in his private room.

A short time, and that gentleman entered. “Anything by the post?” was his first question.

“Two letters, sir,” replied Roland. “And John brought round one, which was addressed to the house. He said you expected it.”

Mr. Galloway went into his private room. He glanced casually at the addresses on the letters, and then called Roland Yorke. “Where is the letter John brought round?” he inquired, somewhat testily.

Roland pointed it out. “That was it, sir.”

“That!” Mr. Galloway bent on it a keener glance, which probably satisfied him that it bore his private address. “Was this the only one he brought?” added he; and from his manner and words Roland inferred that it was not the letter he had expected.

“That was all, sir.”

Roland returned to his own room, and Mr. Galloway sat down and opened his letters. The first two were short communications relative to business; the last was the one brought by John.

What did it contain? For one thing, It contained a bank-note for twenty pounds. But the contents? Mr. Galloway gazed at it and rubbed his brow, and gazed again. He took off his spectacles, and put them on; he looked at the bank-note, and he read and re-read the letter; for it completely upset the theory and set at nought the data he had been going upon; especially the data of the last few hours.

“The finder of that lost twenty-pound note sends it back to Mr. Galloway. His motive in doing so is that the wrongly suspected may be cleared. He who was publicly accused of the offence was innocent, as were all others upon whom suspicion (though not acted upon) may have fallen. The writer of this alone took the note, and now restores it.”

Abrupt and signatureless, such was the letter. When Mr. Galloway had sufficiently overcome his surprise to reason rationally, it struck him as being a singular coincidence that this should come to him on the day when the old affair had been renewed again. Since its bustle had died out at the time of the occurrence, Mr. Galloway did not remember to have voluntarily spoken of it, until that morning with Roland Yorke.

He took up the bank-note. Was it the one actually taken—the same note—kept possibly, in fear, and now returned? He had no means of knowing. He thought it was not the same. His recollection of the lost note had seemed to be that it was a dirty note, which must have passed through many hands; but he had never been quite clear upon that point. This note was clean and crisp. Who had taken it? Who had sent it back? It quite disposed of that disagreeable suspicion touching his cousin. Had his cousin so far forgotten himself as to take the note, he would not have been likely to return it: he knew nothing of the proceedings which had taken place in Helstonleigh, for Mr. Galloway had never mentioned them to him. The writer of this letter was cognizant of them, and had sent it that they might be removed.

At the first glance, it of course appeared to be proof positive that Arthur Channing was not guilty. But Mr. Galloway was not accustomed to take only the superficial view of things: and it struck him, as it would strike others, that this might be, after all, a refined bit of finessing on Arthur’s own part to remove suspicion from himself. True, the cost of doing so was twenty pounds: but what was that compared with the restoration of his good name?

The letter bore the London post-mark. There was not a doubt that it had been there posted. That betrayed nothing. Arthur, or any one else, could have a letter posted there, if wishing to do it. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” thought Mr. Galloway. But again, where was Arthur Channing to procure twenty pounds from? Mr. Galloway did not think that he could procure this sum from anywhere, or that he possessed, himself, a twentieth part of it. So far the probability was against Arthur’s being the author. Mr. Galloway quite lost himself in conjectures. Why should it have been addressed to his residence, and not to the office? He had been expecting a letter from one, that afternoon, who always did address to his residence: and that letter, it appeared, had not arrived. However, that had nothing to do with this. Neither paper nor writing afforded any clue to the sender, and the latter was palpably disguised.

He called in Roland Yorke, for the purpose of putting to him a few useless questions—as a great many of us do when we are puzzled—questions, at any rate, that could throw no light upon the main subject.

“What did John say when he brought this letter?”

“Only what I told you, sir. That you expected a letter addressed to the house, and ordered him to bring it round.”

“But this is not the letter I expected,” tapping it with his finger, and looking altogether so puzzled and astonished that Roland stared in his turn.

“It’s not my fault,” returned he. “Shall I run round, sir, and ask John about it?”

“No,” testily answered Mr. Galloway. “Don’t be so fond of running round. This letter—There’s some one come into the office,” he broke off. Roland turned with alacrity, but very speedily appeared again, on his best behaviour, bowing as he showed in the Dean of Helstonleigh.

Mr. Galloway rose, and remained standing. The dean entered upon the business which had brought him there, a trifling matter connected with the affairs of the chapter. This over, Mr. Galloway took up the letter and showed it to him. The dean read it, and looked at the bank-note.

“I cannot quite decide in what light I ought to take it, sir,” remarked Mr. Galloway. “It either refutes the suspicion of Arthur Channing’s guilt, or else it confirms it.”

“In what way confirms it? I do not understand you,” said the dean.

“It may have come from himself, Mr. Dean. A wheel within a wheel.”

The dean paused to revolve the proposition, and then shook his head negatively. “It appears to me to go a very great way towards proving his innocence,” he observed. “The impression upon my own mind has been, that it was not he who took it—as you may have inferred, Mr. Galloway, by my allowing him to retain his post in the cathedral.”

“But, sir, if he is innocent, who is guilty?” continued Mr. Galloway, in a tone of remonstrance.

“That is more than I can say,” replied the dean. “But for the circumstances appearing to point so strongly to Arthur Channing, I never could have suspected him at all. A son of Mr. Channing’s would have been altogether above suspicion, in my mind: and, as I tell you, for some time I have not believed him to be guilty.”

“If he is not guilty—” Mr. Galloway paused; the full force of what he was about to say, pressing strongly upon his mind. “If he is not guilty, Mr. Dean, there has been a great deal of injustice done—not only to himself—”

“A great deal of injustice is committed every day, I fear,” quietly remarked the dean.

“Tom Channing will have lost the seniorship for nothing!” went on Mr. Galloway, in a perturbed voice, not so much addressing the dean, as giving vent to his thoughts aloud.

“Yes,” was the answer, spoken calmly, and imparting no token of what might be the dean’s private sentiments upon the point. “You will see to that matter,” the dean continued, referring to his own business there, as he rose from his chair.

“I will not forget it, Mr. Dean,” said Mr. Galloway. And he escorted the dean to the outer door, as was his custom when honoured by that dignitary with a visit, and bowed him out.

Roland just then looked a pattern of industry. He had resumed his seat, after rising in salutation as the dean passed through the office, and was writing away like a steam-engine. Mr. Galloway returned to his own room, and set himself calmly to consider all the bearings of this curious business. ............