While Coglin was slowly evolving these ideas, a hand was placed on his arm, and, looking round, he found Burfoot at his side with genuine concern and consternation on his face.
“I’m real sorry for this,” he said, wringing Coglin’s hand, “and if the loan of thirty or forty pounds will help you in your strait, you can depend upon me.”
“Good God! no!” cried Coglin, chokingly.
“But I say, yes. I can surely help a friend in distress,” persisted Burfoot, warmly.
“A friend?” said Coglin, helplessly. “Yes.”
“And I’m almost glad to have the chance, for that tailor has lost everything,” added Burfoot, in a whisper. “Nobody can be sorry for him, for, between ourselves, I believe he was the man who entered your bakehouse and spoiled your flour.”
“What?”
“Yes; I was told by one who knows, but wanted to keep it quiet, that the tailor was seen coming out of your bakehouse window at about one o’clock in the morning.”
“And you never told me!” cried Coglin, reproachfully.
“I can’t tell you even yet; I only say I think it,” said Burfoot, cautiously.