“Oh yes, uncle.”
“Then turn up the bottoms of those trousers before we start.”
“No, uncle; I shall put my leggings on over these,” said Rodd coolly, “and I should advise you to do the same.” Both Uncle Paul’s ears seemed to twitch, and he scratched one as if it itched; but he said nothing, for just then Mrs Champernowne tapped at the door, to enter smiling, with a packet of letters.
“Postman, sir,” she said, placing the letters upon the table. “You won’t mind me speaking another word, sir?” she said.
“Oh no, Mrs Champernowne,” said her visitor, rather gruffly. “What is it?”
“I think you told me, sir, that the prisoners did not take any of your valuables, your money, or anything of that sort?”
“No, Mrs Champernowne,” cried Rodd eagerly. “They took uncle’s money, but they left a lot of French napoleons instead.”
Uncle Paul made a snatch at a very big blue letter, and darted a furious look at his nephew.
“I am very, very, very glad, sir,” cried Mrs Champernowne, “and, poor things, they are to be pitied, after all.”
She backed smilingly out of the room, and Uncle Paul held the big blue letter, which was doubly sealed with red wax, edgewise at his nephew, as if he were going to make a sword-cut at him.