"But how did you open the sealed box?"
"I remembered that, sir, and for some time it puzzled me to know what to do. I'm handy with tools and that kind of thing. I knew I could pick the padlocks; but if once I'd chipped the seals off, it would be seen that the box had been opened. However, there seemed no help for it, so I decided I must risk that much. Late Friday night, or early Saturday morning, I forced back the catch of the library window, and got into the house that way. I got out the box, and was going to begin by breaking the seals, when I thought of something better. I went into the kitchen, found a carving-knife, took it out into the tool-house, and ground the blade very thin on the stone. I got some methylated spirit out of the pantry, made a flame by burning it in a tin dish, and so heated the knife. When the blade was hot enough, I was able to slip it under the seals, so that they came away whole."
"That accounts for the cork," muttered Brian.
"I got the box open," continued the man, "but only to find that it contained nothing more than a bundle of papers. I hadn't time to search them through, but I thought there might be bank-notes, or something of that kind among them, so I determined I'd take them away. I had one fright, for while I was doing this I heard the door pushed open, and Bob came into the room. Of course he knew me, and didn't bark. He must have jumped in through the window while I was in the kitchen. I chained him up again when I went away; but first I refastened the box, and warming the backs of the seals, put them in their former places, exactly as they had been before. I walked all the way to Chadstone that night, and put up at a little pub there, making out I'd come to look for work. I examined the papers, but found that they weren't of any value to me or to any one but Mr. Ormond. For several days I wandered about, hardly daring to show my face in the daytime, sleeping anywhere and half-starved, for what money I had went very fast. One thing I was determined on—that I'd return them papers; and you just about know all the rest. I came that Thursday night, found the old box out in the tool-house, picked the locks again, and put the bundle in its old place, meaning to write Mr. Ormond an anonymous letter and say where the packet was. Then Miss Elsie came to the door and run away screaming. I'd no time to escape, so I hid under a heap of old matting. I heard you come into the place, sir, but you didn't find me, and later on I crept out and made off. I hid in an old barn most of yesterday and to-day, because I was afraid Mr. Ormond would smell a rat, and set the police on my track; and now I was going to try and get something to eat and then my idea was to walk to London."
For some minutes after the narrative had concluded Brian stood hardly knowing what to say. There was no doubt that Cole had been guilty of a serious offence; yet, remembering what he had been in the past, and seeing the change in him now, together with his evidently genuine regret for what he had done, the boy could not help feeling sorry, and anxious even to render the unfortunate fellow some assistance.
"Look here, William," he said suddenly, "the very best thing you can do is to come back with me now, and make a clean breast of the matter to Mr. Ormond."
"Oh, I can't do that, sir!"
"Yes, you can. Tell him exactly what you told me. He'll forgive you, I'm sure, and he'll advise you what to do better than I can."
"He may have me sent to jail," said Cole. "Still, I would rather face it, and take the consequences."
Brian's return to the Pines has already been described, and little more remains to be told. Mr. Ormond's astonishment was as great as his nephew's had been, when he entered the library, and saw William Cole standing there, cap in hand.