"Of theft!" said Richard, angrily. "What nonsense is this?"
"Those notes are stolen," said the little man. "Your name is Richard
Yorke, is it not?"
"What's that to you?" said Richard. "I decline—"
Here the door of the manager's room was opened, and out strode Solomon Coe, with a look of cruel triumph on his harsh features. "That's your man, right enough," said he. "He'd wheedle the devil, if once you let him talk. Be off with him!"
The next moment Richard's wrists were seized, and he was hurried out between two men—his late acquaintance of the hotel and a policeman—down the bank steps, and into a fly that stood there in waiting.
"To the County Jail!" cried Solomon, as he entered the vehicle after them. Then he turned to the red-whiskered man, and inquired fiercely, why he hadn't put the darbies on the scoundrel.
"Never you mind that," was the sharp reply. "I'm responsible for the young gentleman's safe-keeping, and that's enough."
"Young gentleman! I am sure the young gentleman ought to be much obliged to you," replied Solomon, contemptuously. "Young felon, you mean."
"Nobody's a felon until after trial and conviction," observed the little man, decisively. "Let's have no misunderstanding and no obligation, Mr. Coe; that's my motto."
Here the wheels began to rumble, and a shadow fell over the vehicle and those it held: they were passing under the archway of the jail.