hing
rigmarole about General Monk and the Parliament 1660. This Jonah tossed
contemptuously into the grate. But the other letter, how his flesh
crept as he read it! It had no date, and was signed only in initials.

"Dear J. There is no news. I can understand your trouble and remorse,
and this uncertainty makes it all the more terrible to you. I know it
is vain to say to you, `Forget,' but do not write about poor Forrester's
blood being on your head! Your duty is to live and redeem the past.
Let the dead bury their dead, dear fellow, and turn your eyes forward,
like a brave man. Yours ever, J.F."

Do you wonder if Jonah's blood curdled in his veins--"remorse,"
"uncertainty," "poor Forrester," "his blood on your head," eh? "bury
your dead"!

Whew! _What_ a day Jonah had had, to be sure!

CHAPTER EIGHT.

I KNOW A BANK.

Jonah Trimble may not have been a genius of the first water, but he was
at least wise enough to know that he could not both have his cake and
eat it. His discovery of Jeffreys' villainy was a most appetising cake,
and it wanted some little self-denial to keep his own counsel about it,
and not spoil sport by springing his mine until all the trains were
laid.

Another consideration, moreover, which prevented his taking immediate
action was that Jeffreys was extremely useful at Galloway House, and
could not be spared just yet--even to the gallows. In a few months'
time, when the good name of the school, which had rapidly risen since he
came upon the scene, was well established, things might be brought to a
climax. Meanwhile Jonah Trimble would keep his eye on his man, read his
_Eugene Aram_, and follow up his clues.

Jeffreys awoke on the following morning with a feeling of oppression on
his mind which for a little time he could not define. It was not his
guardian's words, bitter as they had been; it was not the insolence of
his fellow-usher, intolerable as that was becoming. When at last his
wandering thoughts came in and gave the trouble shape, he found it took
a much more practical form. He was in debt seven pounds to Mr
Frampton. It never occurred to him to wonder whether Mr Halgrove had
been telling him the truth or not, nor to his unbusinesslike mind did it
occur that his guardian, as the trustee responsible for what money he
once had, was liable for the debt, however much he might like to
repudiate it.

No; all he knew was that Mr Frampton was owed seven pounds, and that