"Ye're very kind," said Cannon weakly. "I--"
"Here. Here's the envelope. Here's a bit of pencil." Edwin stopped him hastily. His fear of being thanked made him harsh.
While Cannon was nervously writing the address, he noticed that the man's clumsy fingers were those of a day-labourer.
"You'll get it all back. You'll see," said Cannon, as he stood up to leave, holding his glossy felt hat in his left hand.
"Don't worry about that. I don't want it. You owe me nothing."
"You'll have every penny back, and before long, too."
Edwin smiled, deprecating the idea.
"Well, good luck!" he said. "You'll get to Crewe all right. There's a train at Shawport at eight seven."
They shook hands, and quitted the inner office. As he traversed the outer office on his way forth, in front of Edwin, Cannon turned his head, as if to say something, but, confused, he said nothing and went on, and at once he disappeared into the darkness outside. And Edwin was left with a memory of his dubious eyes, hard rather than confident, profoundly relieved rather than profoundly grateful.
"By Jove!" Edwin murmured by himself. "Who'd have thought it? ... They say those chaps always turn up again like bad pennies, but I bet he won't." Simultaneously he reflected upon the case of Mrs. Cannon, deserted; but it did not excite his pity. He fastened the safe, extinguished the lights, shut the office, and prepared his mind for the visit to Auntie Hamps.