He winced. “That’s my property. Daniel Quarles, Carrier. And by the good rights, Oi——”
“You have sold him!” she hissed in a fury strange to herself. And she found herself shaking the old man by the arms, shaking him as he had shaken her that very morning in the small hours. And he was cowering before her, the fierce old man, cowering there on his own doorstep.
“Oi couldn’t see ye starve,” he pleaded.
“Oh, it’s not me you were thinking of!” she said harshly, not caring whether she was just or not. “You might have trusted yourself to me after all these years.” Indignation at Elijah’s supposed swindling mingled with her wrath—the idea of his getting Methusalem, an animal worth his weight in gold, for a miserable five-pound note! She gave the old man a final shake, imaginatively intended for Mr. Skindle. “Where’s the money?” she cried, letting him go.
He recovered himself somewhat. “That’s my money,” he said sullenly.
“But where have you put it?”
Cunning and obstinacy mingled in his eye. “Oi’ve put it safe agin all they thieves!”
“I don’t believe you’ve got any money!” she said, matching cunning by cunning. “You just let Mr. Skindle rob you.”
“Noa, Oi dedn’t. Oi got more than Methusalem was worth.”
“Really? More than a sovereign?”