“Oh, no; the Bank of England never refuses its paper. And this top one is dated—let me see. Ah! two years old, and pretty new—Good God!”
The number had struck his eye, and he had turned it over, and read a name written upon the back.
“Oh, Mr Trevithick! Don’t, pray don’t say it’s a bad one!”
“Eh? Bad?” cried the lawyer absently. “Where did you get this note?”
“From the hotel, sir,” cried the poor woman, in a broken voice. “They always change my gold for me there. But they shall give me a good one, for I can swear that I got it there.”
“Wait a moment,” cried Trevithick excitedly. “No; those are quite right.”
“Oh, thank goodness for that!” cried Mrs Sarson, who was trembling so that the notes she took back rustled in her hand. “But do, do look again at the others and see if they are good.”
“Yes, yes, all good, Mrs Sarson,” said Trevithick, looking over them hurriedly.
“Then give me that one, sir, and I’ll take it back to them at once.”
“No, no, Mrs Sarson, the note is quite good,” said the lawyer, putting on his business mask, and looking quite calm, though his heart was thumping heavily.