“I’ve been in the mill lots o’ times,” said Pete evasively, “’fore they took the stones out, and since old Dicky Brandon pulled the sails off.”
“Tell me how you managed it,” said Sam, after a glance round; for, mingled with his uneasy feeling about being betrayed by the great lad before him, he began to feel desperate, and as if he must succeed now he had gone so far. He was convinced in his own mind that the most likely place to find the documents he sought would be in his uncle’s study, and to him the first floor of the old mill was that study. Tom had told him as much, and that the old walnut-wood bureau was the depository where their uncle kept his papers.
“People in the country are such idiots,” he said to himself; “they never think of having strongrooms or iron safes. He has locked the papers up there as sure as a gun.”
It was with a certainty of this being the case that he had come down, and now that there was nothing between him and the prize but a window and this spying lad, the position was irritating to a degree.
Sam thrust his hand into his pocket, where it came in contact with half-a-sovereign and some silver, and he began to think that of these he could perhaps after all make a key. The only question was how to begin.
Pete had uttered a low sniggering laugh on hearing Sam’s last question, and now feeling that he must either act or give up; the latter repeated his inquiry.
“I used to have some bantams,” replied the young scoundrel. “Bantams like wheat and barley.”
“And you used to come and steal some for them?” said Sam sharply.
“Oh, did I? Who said anything about stealing? I didn’t eat the barley; the bantams did.”
“But you stole it all the same,” said Sam, who felt now that he had a handle to take hold of.