"How very extraordinary," said Mr. Bramble after a long silence.
"Nearly five thousand dollars," said M. Mirabeau. "What will you do with it, de Bosky?"
The little violinist passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear away the last vestige of perplexity.
"There is but one thing to do, my friends," he said slowly, straightening up and facing them. "You will understand, of course, that I cannot under any circumstances possess myself of this stolen property."
Another silence ensued.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Bramble at last.
"It would be impossible," said M. Mirabeau, sighing.
"I shall, therefore, address a letter to my friend, acquainting him with the mishap to his coat. I shall inform him that the insects have destroyed the fur in the shoulders, laying bare the padding, and that while I have been negligent in my care of his property up to this time, I shall not be so in the future. Without betraying the secret, I shall in some way let him know that the money is safe and that he may expect to regain all of it when he—when he comes out."
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Bramble warmly.
M. Mirabeau suddenly broke into uproarious laughter.