“That is very true, and I don’t say anything against it. But, Mr. Tozer, I can’t help thinking there’s someone else in it than Cotsdean.”
“What one else? what is the good of coming here to me with a pack of nonsense? He’s a poor needy creature as hasn’t a penny to bless himself with, a lot of children, and a wife as drinks. Don’t talk to me of someone else. That’s the sort of man as does all the mischief. What, Phoebe! run away to your grandmother, I don’t want you here.”
“I am very sorry to interrupt you, grandpapa. Mayn’t I stay? I have something to say to you—”
Tozer turned round and looked at her eagerly. Partly his own fancy, and partly his wife’s more enlightened observations, had made him aware that it was possible that Phoebe might one day have something very interesting to reveal. So her words roused him even in the midst of his preoccupation. He looked at her for a second, then he waved his hand and said,
“I’m busy; go away, my dear, go away; I can’t talk to you now.”
Phoebe gave the visitor a look which perplexed him; but which meant, if he could but have read it, an earnest entreaty to him to go away. She said to herself, impatiently, that he would have understood had he been a woman; but as it was he only stared with lacklustre eyes. What was she to do?
“Grandpapa,” she said, decisively, “it is too late for business tonight. However urgent it may be, you can’t do anything tonight. Why, it is nearly ten o’clock, and most people are going to bed. See Mr. ⸻, I mean this gentleman—tomorrow morning the first thing; for you know, however anxious you may be, you can’t do anything tonight.”
“That is true enough,” he said, looking with staring eyes from her to his visitor, “and more’s the pity. What had to be done should ha’ been done today. It should have been done today, sir, on the spot, not left over night like this, to give the villain time to get away. It’s a crime, Phoebe, that’s what it is—that’s the fact. It’s a crime.”
“Well, grandpapa, I am very sorry; but it will not mend matters, will it, if sitting up like this, and agitating yourself like this, makes you ill? That will not do away with the crime. It is bedtime, and poor grandmamma is dozing, and wondering what has become of you. Grandpapa—”
“Phoebe, go away, it ain’t none of your business; you’re only a bit of a girl, and how can you understand? If you think I’m going to sit down with it like an old fool, lose my money, and what is worse nor my money, let my very name be forged before my eyes—”
Phoebe gave so perceptible a start that Tozer stopped short, and even the banking-clerk looked at her with aroused curiosity.
“Forged!” she cried, with a gasp of dismay; “is it so bad as that?” She had never been more near betraying herself, showing a personal interest more close than was natural. When she saw the risk she was running, she stopped short and summoned all her energies. “I thought someone had pilfered something,” she said with an attempt at a laugh. “I beg your pardon, grandpapa; but anyhow what can you do tonight? You are keeping—this gentleman—and yourself out of bed. Please put it off till tomorrow.”
“I think so too,” said the banker’s clerk. “I’ll come to you in the morning as I go to the Bank. Perhaps I may have been wrong; but I think there’s more in it than meets the eye. Tomorrow we can have the man Cotsdean up and question him.”
“After he’s had time to take himself off,” said Tozer, vehemently. “You take my word he ain’t in Carlingford, not now, let alone tomorrow.”
“Then that shows,” said Phoebe, quietly, “that it is of no use making yourself ill tonight. Grandpapa, let this gentleman go—he wants to go; and I have something to say to you. You can do anything that is necessary tomorrow.”
“I think so indeed,” said Mr. Simpson, of the Bank, getting up at last, “the young lady is quite right. We can’t act hastily in a thing like this. Cotsdean’s a man of good character, Mr. Tozer; all that has to be taken into account—and he is not a beggar. If he has done it, we can recover something at least; but if he has been taken advantage of—I think the young lady is a good counsellor, and that it’s much the best to wait till tomorrow.”
Phoebe seized upon her grandfather’s arm to restrain him, and held him back. “Good night,” she said; “grandpapa, stay with me, I have something to say to you. Listen; you don’t think me very silly, do you, grandpapa dear?”
“Silly!” he said, listening to the steps of the departing visitor as they receded along the passage. “What has a chit like you to do with business? I tell you it’ll kill me. Me a-signing of accommodation bills for a bit of a small shopkeeper like that Cotsdean! I tell you it’ll make an end of me, that will, unless I gets my money and clears myself afore the world. And here you’ve been and sent away Simpson, and who’s to manage for me? I ain’t a lawyer to know what to do. Get away, get away, and leave me to myself, I can’t be disturbed with women-folks when
