“Of course they haven’t, when I’ve got ’em safe in my pocket-book.”
“In your pocket-book, sir?”
“Yes. Don’t you believe me? There; look. Bit rubbed at the edges with being squeezed in the old leather; but there are the notes; aren’t they? Look at the numbers.”
As the old man spoke he took a shabby old pocket-book from his breast, opened it, and drew out a bundle of notes, held together by an elastic band, and laid them on the office table with a bang.
“Bless my heart!” cried Crampton excitedly, as he hastily put on his spectacles and examined the notes, and compared them with an entry in a book. “Yes, sir,” he said to Van Heldre; “these are the very notes.”
“But how came you by them, Luke Vine?” cried Van Heldre, who looked as much astounded as his clerk.
“How came I by them?” snarled Uncle Luke. “Do you think five hundred pounds are to be picked up in the gutter. I meant that money, and more too, for that unfortunate boy; and the more careless he was the more necessary it became for me to look after his interests.”
“You meant that money for poor Harry?”
“To be sure I did, and by the irony of fate the poor misguided lad sent his companion to steal it.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Van Heldre, while Crampton nodded his head so sharply that his spectacles dropped off, and were only saved from breaking by a quick interposition of the hands.