“To be sure I did. Old Blakeford thought he’d taken possession of all your father’s papers, my boy, after his death, but he didn’t.”
“How did you get them, then?” said Mr Jabez sharply.
“Bought ’em, I tell you. It was like this: old Blakeford put me in possession at the house of a man who had borrowed money of him, and he was going to sell him up—you know his ways, young ’un—I mean Mr Grace. Well, I went there one night, and very wild the poor fellow was, and he went straight to a bureau, that I seemed to have seen before, and began to go over his papers, tying up some and burning others, and going on and calling old Blakeford names all the while. ‘Ah,’ he says, all at once, ‘I bought this writing-table and drawers at Grace’s sale, when Blakeford sold the furniture. Look here,’ he said, ‘this lot of papers was in one of the back drawers. They belonged to old Grace, I suppose,’ and he was about to pitch them into the fire with his own letters and things, of which there was quite a heap.
“‘Don’t do that,’ I says; ‘they may be of value.’
“‘Not they,’ he says; ‘if they’d been worth anything old Blakeford wouldn’t have left them. They aren’t worth tuppence!’
“‘I’ll give you tuppence for them,’ I says.
“‘Pay up,’ he says, and I handed him the twopence, and took the papers. I’ve read ’em, and think they’re worth the money.”
“Worth the money!” cried Tom Girtley; “why, they may be worth ten thousand pounds; but I can say nothing till I have gone into the case; and I daresay it would be necessary to make Mr Blakeford supply some of the connecting links.”
“Which he won’t do,” said Mr Peter quietly.
“Unless he’s obliged,” said Tom Girtley. “There are means of making even a solicitor speak, Mr Rowle,” he continued. “Will you take these papers?”