“Yes, we know.”
“To fetch twenty-one thousand pounds—my own property!”
There was dead silence here.
“Look! that is the money, all in new Bank of England notes.”
He tore them out of the large pocket-book.
“To show you my confidence in Dixons’ Bank and in Sir Gordon Bourne’s word, I deposit this sum with them, and open an account. Mr Thickens, have the goodness to enter this to my credit; I’ll take a chequebook when you are at liberty.”
He passed the sheaf of rustling, fluttering, new, crisp notes to the cashier, and then, taking Sir Gordon’s offered hand, leaped down inside the counter of the bank.
“There, Sir Gordon,” he said, with a smile, “I hope the plague is stayed.”
“Christie Bayle,” whispered Sir Gordon huskily, “Heaven bless you! I shall never forget this day!” Half-an-hour later the bank business was going on as usual, but the business of the past night and morning was more talked of than before.