Bullard, seated by the table, rarely shifted his gaze from the busy fingers. Mrs. Lancaster, on the couch, a little way off, devoured the casket with brilliant, greedy stare. As for Lancaster, in his chair by the hearth, he had turned his face from the scene of operations, and sat motionless, one hand gripping the chair-arm, the other shading his eyes.
At last the worker paused, drew a long breath, and made to raise the lid.
But Bullard's hand shot out and held it.
"That will do, my man."
The worker let go with a shrug of his shoulders, and proceeded to bundle up his tools.
"I could do wi' a drink now," he grumbled. "Neat."
Bullard turned to the small table at his elbow, and poured out half a tumbler of whisky. The other, having stuffed the bundle into his pocket, rose, seized the glass, and gulped the contents. He set the glass on the table and held out his hand. Bullard laid a heap of sovereigns in it, and it closed as if automatically.
"Report when he's really hungry," said Bullard in an undertone, and the man nodded. "Mr. Lancaster," he said aloud, "would you mind showing this man to the door? I'll do nothing till you come back."
"Eh—what's that?" quavered Lancaster, exposing a dazed-looking countenance.
"Oh, I'll do it," said his wife, rising impatiently. "This way, my man."
He slouched out after her. There was silence in the room till she returned.