“If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?” said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.
“Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,” replied Bumble, recoiling at the very notion.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, into which he had hurriedly thrust it, and tying it firmly to a leaden weight which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die, clove the water with a scarcely audible splash, and was gone.
The evidence destroyed.
The three looked into each other’s faces, and seemed to breathe more freely.
“There!” said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. “If the sea ever gives up its dead—as books say it will—it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.”
“By all means,” observed Mr. Bumble with great alacrity.
“You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?” said Monks, with a threatening look. “I am not afraid of your wife.”