“It’s worse—worse!” he moaned. “I’ve lost all my money—all—all! there’s the tin I kept it in—see for yourself if there’s a penny left in it.” He threw himself into his chair and bowed down his head upon his hands.
Far off a solitary (speaking) trumpet blew.
“If the hands are to go home you’ve only got to say so and I release them,” was the message that was delivered into my ear when I went to the end of the tube communicating with the foreman.
“Three columns will be out inside half an hour,” I replied. Then I turned to the sobbing sub-editor. “Come,” said I, “bear it like a man. It’s a terrible thing, of course, but still it must be faced. Tell me how many pounds you’ve lost, and I’ll put the matter into the hands of the police.”
He looked up with a vacant white face.
“How many—there were a hundred and forty pence in the tin when I went home last night. See if there’s a penny left.”
A cursory glance at the chocolate tin that lay on the table was quite sufficient to convince me that it was empty.
“Cheer up,” I said. “A hundred and forty pence. It sounds large in pence, to be sure, but when you think of it from the standard of the silver currency it doesn’t seem so formidable. Eleven and eightpence. Of course it’s a shocking thing. Was it all in pence?”
“All—all—every penny of it.”
“Keep up your heart. We may be able to trace the money. I suppose you are prepared to identify the coins?”