But if you come to think of it, there may have been a great deal in his request, and even more in the girl’s frank bestowal.
CHAPTER XXI.
The Foundation of the Gold League.
Mr. Crewe sat in the Timber Town Club with his satellite, Cathro, beside him. The old gentleman was smoking a well-seasoned briar pipe, from which he puffed clouds of smoke contemplatively, as he watched the gesticulations of a little man who was arguing with a gentleman who wore riding-breeches and leggings.
“I tell you, sir,” said the little man, “that there is not the vestige of proof that the mails were stolen, not the slightest scintilla of truth in the suspicion.”
“Then what became of them?” asked the other, as he fixed a gold horse-shoe pin more securely in his tie.
“What became of them?” exclaimed the little man. “They were washed overboard, washed overboard and lost.”
“But,” said the man of horses, “I happened to be riding home late that night, and, I assure you, there was not a breath of wind; the sea was as smooth as glass.”
“That might be,” retorted the little man, who was now pacing up and down in front of his adversary in a most excited fashion. “That might be, but there is a lot of surge and swell about a steamer, especially in the neighbourhood of the screw, and it is very possible, I may say highly probable, that the missing bags were lost as the mail was being passed up the side.”