But the packets of bills, though interesting in a general way, had no bearing on the great question of the fortune. The papers were all bills.
“Not even a bit of poetry,” sighed Patty, as Sinclair laid aside one after another of the receipted bills for merchandise, household goods, clothing, and labour.
“These might interest a historian,” said Sinclair, “as they throw some light on the prices of goods at that time. But we’ll keep on, we may come to something of interest yet.”
“I hope so,” said Bob. “I’m so anxious, that nothing less than a straight direction to the fortune would satisfy me.”
“Well, here’s something,” said Sinclair, “whatever it may mean.”
The paper he had just unfolded was a mason’s bill, containing only one item. The bill was made out in due form, by one Martin Campbell, and was properly receipted as paid. And its single item read:
“To constructing one secret pocket.... Three Guineas.”
“Oh!” cried Patty, breathless with excitement. “Then there is a secret pocket, or poke as your exasperating uncle calls it.”
“There must be,” said Sinclair; “and now that we know that, we’re going to find it. Of course, we assumed there was one, but we had only that foolish doggerel to prove it. Now this regular bill establishes it as a fact beyond all doubt. Do you know this Martin Campbell, Grandy?”
“I know there was a mason by that name, who worked here several times for your uncle. He came down from Leicester, but of course I know nothing more of him.”