“No, we did n't quarrel,” broke in Cutbill, sulkily; “we betted.”
“Yes, that is more correct Pracontal was so firmly persuaded that the papers existed that he offered three to one on it, and Cutbill, who likes a good thing, took it in hundreds.”
“No. I wish I had. It was in fifties.”
“As they had no permission to make the search, which required to break down the wall, and damage a valuable fresco—”
“No. It was under the fresco, in a pedestal. I 'd engage to make it good for thirty shillings,” broke in Cutbill.
“Well, we 'll not dispute that The essential point is that Pracontal's scruples would not permit him to proceed to an act of depredation, but that Cutbill had more resolution. He wanted to determine the fact.”
“Say that he wanted to win his money, and you 'll be nearer the mark,” interposed Cutbill.
“Whichever way we take it, it amounts to this: Pracontal would not be a housebreaker, and Cutbill had no objection to become one. I cannot give you the details of the infraction—perhaps he will.”
Cutbill only grunted, and the other went on—“However he obtained entrance, he made his way to the place indicated, smashed the wall, and dragged forth a box with four or five thick volumes, which turned out to be the parish registries of Portshandon for a very eventful period, at least a very critical one for us; for, if the discovery loses Mr. Cutbill his fifty pounds, it places the whole estate in jeopardy.”
“That's the worst of it,” cried Cutbill. “My confounded meddling has done it all.”