when, at last, I fairly broke down in the
middle of a sentence, and gave up the hope
of getting any farther, all the answer he
gave me was comprised in these few civil,
common-place words:—

"Never mind, Mr. Trowbridge; pray
don't think of apologising. We are all liable
to make mistakes. Say nothing more about
it; and bring the money back on Monday
if you still honour us with your confidence."

He looked down at his papers, as if he was
anxious to be alone again; and I had no
alternative, of course, but to take my leave
immediately. I went home, feeling a little
easier in my mind, now that I had paved the
way for making the best practical atonement
in my power, by bringing my balance back
the first thing on Monday morning. Still,
I passed a weary day on Sunday, reflecting,
sadly enough, that I had not yet made my
peace with Mr. Fauntleroy. My anxiety to
set myself right with my generous friend was
so intense, that I risked intruding myself on
his privacy by calling at his town residence
on the Sunday. He was not there; and his
servant could tell me nothing of his
whereabouts. There was no help for it now but to
wait till his week-day duties brought him
back to the bank.

I went to business on Monday morning,
half-an-hour earlier than usual, so great was
my impatience to restore the amount of that
unlucky draft to my account, as soon as
possible after the bank opened. On entering
my office, I stopped with a startled feeling,
just inside the door. Something serious had
happened. The clerks, instead of being at
their desks as usual, were all huddled
together in a group, talking to each other with
blank faces. When they saw me, they fell
back behind my managing man, who stepped
forward with a circular in his hand.

"Have you heard the news, sir?" he said.

"No. What is it?"

He handed me the circular. My heart
gave one violent throb the instant I looked at
it. I felt myself turn pale; I felt my knees
trembling under me.

Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy and Graham
had stopped payment.

"The circular has not been issued more
than half an hour," continued my managing
clerk. "I have just come from the bank, sir.
The doors are shut—there is no doubt about
it. Marsh and Company have stopped this
morning."

I hardly heard him; I hardly knew who
was talking to me. My strange visitor of
the Saturday had taken instant possession of
all my thoughts; and his words of warning
seemed to be sounding once more in my ears.
This man had known the true condition of the
bank, when not another soul outside the
doors was aware of it! The last draft paid
across the counter of that ruined house,
when the doors closed on Saturday, was the
draft that I had so bitterly reproached
myself for drawing; the one balance saved from
the wreck was my balance. Where had the
stranger got the information that had saved
me; and why had he brought it to my
ears?

I was still groping, like a man in the dark,
for an answer to those two questions—I was
still bewildered by the unfathomable mystery
of doubt into which they had plunged me,
when the discovery of the stopping of the
bank was followed almost immediately by a
second shock, far more dreadful, far heavier
to bear, so far as I was concerned, than the
first. While I and my clerks were still discussing
the failure of the firm, two mercantile
men, who were friends of mine, ran into the
office, and overwhelmed us with the news
that one of the partners had been arrested
for forgery. Never shall I forget the terrible
Monday morning when those tidings reached
me, and when I knew that the partner was
Mr. Fauntleroy.

I was true to him—I can honestly say I
was true to my belief in my generous friend
—when that fearful news reached me. My
fellow-merchants had got all the particulars
of the arrest. They told me that two of Mr.
Fauntleroy's fellow trustees had come up
to London to make arrangements about
selling out some stock. On inquiring for Mr.
Fauntleroy at the banking-house, they had
been informed that he was not there; and,
after leaving a message for him, they had
gone into the city to make an appointment
with their stockbroker for a future day,
when their fellow trustee might be able to
attend. The stockbroker volunteered to
make certain business inquiries on the spot,
with a view to saving as much time as
possible; and left them at his office to await his
return. He came back, looking very much
amazed, with the information that the stock
had been sold out, down to the last five
hundred pounds. The affair was instantly
investigated; the document authorising the
selling out was produced; and the two
trustees saw on it, side by side with Mr.
Fauntleroy's signature, the forged signature
of their own names. This happened on the
Friday; and the trustees, without losing a
moment, sent the officers of justice in pursuit
of Mr. Fauntleroy. He was arrested, brought
up before the magistrate, and remanded, on
the Saturday. On the Monday I heard from
my friends the particulars which I have just
narrated.

But the events of that one morning were
not destined to end, even yet. I had
discovered the failure of the bank, and the
arrest of Mr. Fauntleroy. I was next to be
enlightened, in the strangest and the saddest
manner, on the difficult question of his
innocence or his guilt. Before my friends
had left my office; before I had exhausted
the arguments which my gratitude rather
than my reason suggested to me, in favour of
the unhappy prisoner, a note, marked