Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months' time. He was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to David to have grown taller in these two months.

"I have improved, haven't I? I can't say as much for you. What is the trouble, Davie?"

Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to David's. But David drew himself away. He hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the summer have pa.s.sed so differently to them? At the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. So he withdrew from the young man's touch, and turned away saying nothing.

"Is it as bad as that? Can't I help you? Frank seemed to think I might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you got into a sc.r.a.pe at last?"

"A sc.r.a.pe!" repeated David. "No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I should be sorry to trouble you."

"Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to come, because of Frank's letter. He seemed to think I could put you through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?"

David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of Philip's coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before.

If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer.

"So you have come home!" said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. "You have not been in haste."

"I beg your pardon. I _have_ been in haste. I did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about it."

"And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless."

"You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him a minute, and then I'll go home with you, Davie," said Philip, turning towards his father's door. "David has important business with me,"

added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle.

David shook his head.

"Your father will tell you all about it," said he, hoa.r.s.ely.

Philip whistled and came back again.

"That is the way, is it?"

"Or I will tell you," said Mr Caldwell, gravely. "Young man, what did your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?"

Philip looked at him in surprise.

"What is that to you, sir? He said--I don't very well know what he said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through."

Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother's letter and held it out to David. "Perhaps you can make it out," said he.

Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet's, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to Philip.

"Can you make it out?" Philip asked.

"I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell."

"All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the sc.r.a.pe, I will."

"That is to be seen yet," said Mr Caldwell.

Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip's face, and his last words were--

"And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. Is that what he says in his letter?"

Philip's face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first he whistled and looked amused, but his amus.e.m.e.nt changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question--

"What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!"

"There was no one else, he thought," said David.

"No one else!" repeated Philip. "Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there was _me_. I took the money."

"If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them," said Mr Caldwell, severely. "You had best tell your father about it now,"

added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room.

"Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?"

"The note!" repeated his father. "I got no note from you."

"David, my man," whispered Mr Caldwell, "do you mind the word that says, 'He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?' The Lord doesna forget."

The story as they gathered it from Philip's explanations and exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from C--. He had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to C-- without a moment's delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it.

"And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie," said Philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done.

"And now the matter lies between him and you," said his father. "For the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after all."

But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that.

"And we are just where we were before," said Mr Caldwell. "But don't be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this."

"But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I would have cut the whole concern," said Philip.

"There would have been much wisdom in that," said Mr Caldwell dryly.

"There is no fear of David Inglis."

David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter that Philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of Mr Oswald might still rest on him "I wonder you did not think of me, father," went on Philip. "Frank did, I dare say, though I could not make out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have a look."

He went into his father's room, and the others followed. Philip looked about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months ago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters and account-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald's hat and cane, and that was all.

"The big book lay just here," said Philip. "I laid my note on it, so that it need not be overlooked."

"There are more big books in the office than one," said Mr Caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still standing open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that were not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether any paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understood what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal more energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was Mr Caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking--Philip's note to his father--safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as though it might not have been opened for years.

"I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp's account of past years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, David Inglis, your trial is over for this time," and he handed the note to Mr Oswald.

"Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake," added he, cautiously, as the note was opened.

The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took Mr Oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while before he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip's help, set about putting the big books in their places again. David never thought of offering to help.