"I say--those bank-notes that were stolen--"
"I never stole 'em."
"No one said you did," retorted Naball tartly; "but you wrote something on the back of one of 'em."
Isaiah turned scarlet, and shifted from one leg to the other.
"Well, you see," he murmured apologetically, "Mr. Stewart wanted to know a good 'un to back for the Cup, so I was afraid of the old 'un hearing, and as there wasn't no paper, I wrote on the back of one of 'em, 'Back Flat-Iron.'"
"In pencil?"
"No, in ink. Mr. Stewart, he laughs and nods, then puts the notes in the cash box, and puts 'em in the safe."
"That's all right," said Naball, dismissing him; "you can go."
Isaiah put on his hat, put his hands in his pockets, and departed, whistling a tune. When the door closed on him, Naball turned to his two companions with an exulting light in his eyes.
"What do you think now, Mr. Naball?" asked Eugénie.