“They are portraits of my children when young: Heaven forgive me, I could not give them up to my creditors: surely, surely, you will not rob me of them.”
“Stash your gab,” said Mr. Green roughly. “Here's a guinea, Queen Anne's reign.”
“It belonged to my great-grandfather: take it, but you will let me redeem it; I will give L. 5 for it poor as I am: you can leave it on my door-step, and I'll leave the L. 5.”
“Stow your gab. Letters; papers covered with figures. Stay, what is this? a lot of memoranda.”
“They are of the most private and delicate character. Pray do not expose my family misfortunes.” And Mr. Hardie, who of late had been gathering composure, showed some signs of agitation; the two figures glaring over his shoulder shared it, and his remonstrance only made Green examine the papers keenly: they might contain some clue to the missing money. It proved a miscellaneous record: the price of Stocks at various days; notes of the official assignee's remarks in going over the books, &c. At last, however, Green's quick eye fell upon a fainter entry in pencil; figures: 1, 4; yes, actually L. 14,000. “All right,” he said: and took the paper close to the lantern, and began to spell it out—
“'This day Alfred told me to my face I had L. 14,000 of Captain Dodd's. We had an angry discussion. What can he mean? Drs. Wycherley and Osmond, this same day, afflicted me with hints that he is deranged, or partly. I saw no signs of it before. Wrote to my brother entreating him to give me L. 200 to replace the sum which I really have wronged this respectable and now most afflicted family of. I had better withdraw——'” Here Mr. Hardie interrupted him with sorrowful dignity: “These are mere family matters; if you are a man, respect them.”
Green went reading on like Fate: “'Better withdraw my opposition to the marriage, or else it seems my own flesh and blood will go about the place blackening my reputation.'”
Mr. Hardie stamped on the ground. “I tell you, on my honour as a gentleman, there's no money there but my grandfather's guinea. My money is all in my waistcoat pocket, where you will not look.”
A flutter of uneasiness seemed to come over the detective: he darkened his lantern, and replaced the pocket-book hurriedly in the prisoner's breast, felt him all over in a minute, and to keep up the farce, robbed him.
“Only eight yellow boys,” said he contemptuously to his mates. He then shipped the money back into Hardie's coat-pocket, and conducted him to his own gate, tied him to it by the waist, and ordered him not to give the alarm for ten minutes on pain of death.