“They don’t see what my letters are about?”
“They must be dull postmen if they don’t remark on the shower of envelopes that pass through their hands—ominous money-letters, all with the same address, and no detection remember. You don’t know who will answer and who will not.”
“I never thought of that,” said Rachel; “but risks must be run when any great purpose is in hand.”
“The corruption of one postman versus the rescue of—how many children make a postman?” asked Captain Keith, with his grave, considering look.
“The postman would be corrupt already,” said Grace, as Rachel thought the last speech too mocking to be worthy of reply, and went on picking up her letters.
“There is another objection,” added Captain Keith, as he watched her busy fingers. “Have you considered how you are frightening people out of the society? It is enough to make one only subscribe as Michael Miserly or as Simon Skinflint, or something equally uninviting to applications.”
“I shall ask you to subscribe by both names!” said Rachel, readily. “How much for Simon Skinflint?”
“Ten pounds. Stop—when Mr. Mauleverer gives him a reference.”
“That’s ungenerous. Will Michael Miserly make up for it?”
“Yes, when the first year’s accounts have been audited.”