This done, she thrust her hand down into the round velvet-lined hole from which the sugar basin had been lifted, gave it a knock sideways, and then lifted out the whole of the internal fittings of the caddy, set it on the table, and held it on one side, showing that the bottom was the exact size of a Bank of England note, one for ten pounds being visible.
“There!” she said, with a sigh; “that was my dear husband’s idea. He was a cabinetmaker, sir, and he was quite right. They have always been safe.”
“Yes, Mrs Sarson,” said the lawyer; “but you have lost your interest.”
“Lost what, sir?”
“Your interest! How many years have they been lying here?”
“Oh, a many, sir. Some were put there by my poor husband, and I’ve gone on putting in more as often as I could save up another ten pounds, for I kept the sovereigns in my pocket till I had ten, and then I used to change them for notes.”
“Humph, yes!” said Trevithick, wetting a finger, bank-clerkly, and counting the notes. “Twenty-seven. All tens. Two hundred and seventy pounds. I only want two hundred and fifty, Mrs Sarson. You shall put two back for nest eggs.”
He took the two top notes off, before turning the parcel over and looking at the bottom note, one that looked old and yellow, and he read the date.
“Forty years old that one, Mrs Sarson.”
“Yes, sir; but that don’t matter, does it?”