The rector muttered an apology. He really did look abashed.
“I say,” repeated Joshua, “that the Crown, to prove its title to treasure-trove, must prove the depositor’s intention to reclaim first. Where that is wanting, or where an intention to abandon can be shown—as when the goods were thrown away in a panic, or for other reason, to be rid of them—the treasure remains wholly and solely in the possession of the finder.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Sant, plucking up heart. “And what benefit is that alternative to you?”
“What benefit! To me!” cried Joshua. “Have you heard my story, sir? Did you listen to it? Did you hear me quote the man Vining’s confession that he had abandoned the price of his iniquity, and cast it from him?”
Mr. Sant reflected. He was getting interested, I was sure, after all.
“’Tis a subtle legal point, I think,” said he. “I foresee, anyhow, fine complications; even if you had evidence—which you have not—of this intention to abandon.”
“Which I have not,” repeated Joshua, “at present. And which I shall never have, to the right effect, if your delicate conscience can forestall me.”
“You are unnecessarily sarcastic, sir,” said the clergyman, gravely. “You must give me the credit of my intentions. This Augean stable in our midst—it must be cleaned out as soon as recognized, or I become an accomplice in its condition. Why should any prompt summoning of the sweeper—of our legal Hercules—affect your position?”
“Because, sir,” said Joshua, vigorously, “he would, a thousand to one, lay bare, in so drastic a process, the golden deposit underneath, and so rob me of any title to its discovery.”
Mr. Sant grunted uneasily.