There was a fresh murmur here, and Sir Gordon looked anxious. Mr Anderson stood fast; but it was evident that a strong party were waiting for their money, and more than one began to twitch Thickens by the sleeve, and present cheques and notes.
Thickens paid no heed, but made his way to where Christie Bayle was standing, and handed him a pocket-book.
“Here,” he said. “I couldn’t come to you. I had to watch the bank.”
“My pocket-book, Thickens?”
“Yes, sir. I was just in time to knock that scoundrel over as he was throttling you. I’d come to meet the coach.”
“Why, Thickens!” cried Bayle, flushing—“Ah, you grasping old miser! What! turn thief?”
The latter was to old Gemp, who saw the pocket-book passed, and made a hawk-like clutch at it, but his wrist was pinned by Bayle, who took the pocket-book and slipped it into his breast.
“It’s my papers—it’s writings—it’s—”
His voice was drowned in a clamour that arose, as about twenty more people came hurrying in at the bank-door, eager to make demands for their deposits.
Sir Gordon grew pale, for there was not enough cash in the house to meet the constant demand, and he had hoped that the ready payment of a great deal would quiet the run.