of the moment.
Jack in his anger resented that "may" and "perhaps," as implying doubt
as to his honesty, and regarded the silence of the others as a sign
that they also considered him guilty. In his wild, reckless manner he
dashed his knife down upon the table, and with a parting glare at his
accuser, marched straight out of the room.

Valentine rose to follow him.

"No, Val," said Miss Fenleigh, in an agitated voice. "Leave him to
himself for a little while. He'll be calmer directly."

Ten minutes later the front door closed with a bang.

"He's going out to get cool, I suppose," said Raymond scornfully. "He
didn't seem to relish my finding his play-box key. However, perhaps
he'll explain matters when he comes back."

But Jack did not come back. The blind fury of the moment gave place to
a dogged, unreasoning sense of wrong and injustice. He had been
accused of robbing the person he loved best on earth, and she believed
him to be guilty. The old, wayward spirit once more took full
possession of his heart, and in a moment he was ready to throw
overboard all that he prized most dearly.

He had some money in his pocket, enough to carry him home if he walked
to Melchester, and his luggage could come on another time. The plan
was formed, and he did not hesitate to put it into immediate execution.

It was not until nearly an hour after his departure that Queen Mab
realized what had become of him, and then her distress was great.

"Why didn't he wait to speak to us!" she cried. "We must all write him
a letter by to-night's post, to tell him that, of course, we don't
think he's the thief, and to beg him to come back."

"If you like to do it at once," said Raymond, "I'll post them at
Grenford. They'll reach him then the first thing in the morning."

The letters were written; even Barbara, who never could be got to
handle a pen except under strong compulsion, scribbled nearly four
pages, and filled up the blank space at the end with innumerable kisses.

About two hours later the scapegoat tramped, footsore and weary, into
the Melchester railway station; and at nearly the same moment, Raymond
Fosberton, on his way home, took from his pocket the letters which had
been entrusted to his care, tore them to fragments, and dropped them
over the low wall of a bridge into the canal.

"Now we're about quits!" he said.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SOUND OF THE DRUM.

"'I believe I must go out into the world again,'