Shortly after breakfast Mr. Wingfield, the accountant from London, arrived--a tall, gentlemanly man, with a formal manner.
'I'm sorry about this business, Mr. Crosse,' said he.
Frank made a grimace. 'It can't be helped.'
'We will hope that the amount is not very serious. We have warned Mr. Farintosh that his books will be inspected to-day. When you are ready we shall go round.'
The agent lived in a side-street not far off. A brass plate, outside a small brick house, marked it out from the line of other small brick houses. A sad-faced woman opened the door, and Farintosh himself, haggard and white, was seated among his ledgers in the little front room. A glance at the man's helpless face turned all Frank's resentment to pity.
They sat down at the table, the accountant in the centre, Farintosh on the right, and Frank on the left. There was no talk save an occasional abrupt question and answer. For two hours the swish and rustle of the great blue pages of the ledgers were the chief sound, with the scratching of Mr. Wingfield's pen as he totalled up long columns of figures. Frank's heart turned to water as he saw the huge sums which had passed through this man's hands. How much had remained there? His whole future depended upon the answer to that question. How prosaic and undramatic are the moments in which a modern career is made or marred! In this obscure battlefield, the squire no longer receives his accolade in public for his work well done, nor do we see the butcher's cleaver as it hacks off the knightly spurs, but failure and success come strangely and stealthily, determined by trifles, and devoid of dignity. Here was the crisis of Frank's young life, in this mean front room, amongst the almanacs and the account-books.
'Can I rely upon these figures?' asked Wingfield at last.
'You can, sir.'
'In that case I congratulate you, Mr. Crosse. I can only find a deficiency of fifty pounds.'
Only enough to swallow the whole of their little savings, which they had carefully invested! However, it was good news, and Frank shook the proffered hand of the accountant.
'I will stay for another hour to check these figures,' said Wingfield. 'But there is no need to detain you.'
'You will come round and lunch with us?'
'With pleasure.'
'Au revoir, then.' Frank ran all the way home, and burst in upon his wife. 'It is not so very bad, dear--only fifty pounds.' They danced about in their joy like two children.
But Wingfield came to his lunch within a solemn face.
'I am very sorry to disappoint you,' he said, 'but the matter is more serious than I thought. We have entered some sums as unpaid which he has really received, but the receipts for which he has held back. They amount to another hundred pounds.'
Maude felt inclined to cry as she glanced at Frank, and saw his resolute effort to look unconcerned.
'Then it's a hundred and fifty.'
'Certainly not less. I have marked the items down upon this paper for your inspection.'
Frank glanced his practised eyes over the results of the accountant's morning's work.
'You have credited him within a hundred and twenty pounds in the bank, I see.'
'Yes, his bank-book shows a balance of that amount.'
'When was it made out?'
'Last Saturday.'
'He may have drawn it since them.'
'It is certainly possible.'
'We might go round after lunch and make sure.'
'Very good.'
'And in any case, as it is the Company's money, don't you think we had better take it out of his hands?'
'Yes, I think you are right.'
It was a miserable meal, and they were all glad when it was finished. Maude drew Frank into the other room before he started.
'I could not let you go without THAT, dearest. Keep a brave heart, my own laddie, for I know so well that we shall come through it all right.'
So Frank set out with a higher courage, and they both returned to the agent's house. His white face turned a shade whiter when he understood their errand.
'Is this necessary, Mr. Wingfield?' he pleaded.