“It is impossible.”
“Say not so, sir. I will show you it is true. Meantime I will explain it.”
He explained his contrivance at full. Meadows hung his head; he saw how terribly the subtle Oriental had outwitted him; yet his presence of mind never for a moment deserted him.
“Sir,” said he, “I have had the misfortune to offend Mr. Levi, and he is my sworn enemy. If you really mean to go into this ridiculous affair, allow me to bring witnesses, and I will prove to you he has been threatening vengeance against me these two years—and you know a lie is not much to a Jew. Does this appear likely? I am worth sixty thousand pounds—why should I steal?”
“Why, indeed?” said Mr. Williams. “I stole these notes to give them away—that is your story, is it?”
“Nay, you stole them to beggar your rival, whose letters to the maiden he loved you had intercepted by fraud at the post-office in Farnborough.” Susan and George uttered an exclamation at the same moment. “But, having stole them, you gave them to Crawley.”
“How generous!” sneered Meadows. “Well, when you find Crawley with seven thousand pounds, and he says I gave them him, Mr. Williams will take your word against mine, and not till then, I think.”
“Certainly not—the most respectable man for miles round!”
“So be it,” retorted Isaac, coolly; “Nathan, bring Crawley.” At that unexpected word, Meadows looked round for a way to escape. The hooked-nosed ones hemmed him in. Crawley was brought out of the fly, quaking with fear.
“Sir,” said Levi, “if in that man's bosom, on the left-hand side, the missing notes are not found, let me suffer scorn; but, if they be found, give us justice on the evil-doer.”