“Very true; quite agree with you,” said Mr Timson. “Just as you say.”
“Pounds might have been abstracted,” said the vicar.
“Abstract, an epitome, a taking from,” muttered Mr Timson; “yes, just so, pounds, very true, sir.”
“Hang it all, Timson, don’t be so aggravating,” said the vicar, pettishly. “What is the good of agreeing with one in everything, it can’t do any good?”
“Just so, sir,” said Mr Timson; and then, turning very red and hot, “No, sir, of course not; but can’t do any harm.”
“Then for goodness’ sake come into the vestry;” and the vicar led the way towards the little robing room to count the offerings of the charitable.
“Now, are you sure about that sovereign?” said Mr Timson to the vicar, as they passed down the nave.
“Sure!” exclaimed the vicar, “have I not shown you the entry? But there! I must have made a mistake.”
“Of course you have,” said Timson, triumphantly.
“For it is impossible,” continued the vicar, “for any one to have obtained access to the money; and surely no one would be so cruel as rob the poor, eh? What do you think? Calmly and considerately now?”