"Not all—not all: I never said all," cried the hag; "only of a part. And so, if you will lay the other ten sovereigns on the table, you shall have the papers."
The old woman spoke more confidently now; for she felt herself to be less in the power of her two companions than she so lately was.
The Resurrection Man understood her, and smiled grimly, as he counted the money before her.
She then took a pair of scissors, cut a small hole in the mattress of her bed, and drew forth a pocket-book, which she handed to Tidkins.
It was tied round with a piece of riband—once pink, now faded to a dingy white; and its contents were several letters.
The Resurrection Man glanced over their superscriptions, muttering to himself, "Well, you have not deceived me: I have brought you to reason—I thought I should. Ha! what have we here? 'To Mr. Markham, Markham Place, Lower Holloway.'—And here is another to him—and another.—But this next is different. 'To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.'—Slap-up fellow, that—a regular old rake: keeps a harem, they say.—And here is another to him.—Then we have one—two—three, all directed alike—to 'Mrs. Wilmot,' and no address: conveyed by hand, I suppose. And that's all."
With a complacent smile—as complacent as a smile on such a countenance could be—the Resurrection Man secured the pocket-book with its contents about his person.
He and Banks then took their leave of the old woman.
CHAPTER CCXXI.
THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.
It was on a beautiful morning, in the first week of March, that a large war-steamer passed Gravesend, and pursued its rapid way towards Woolwich.