"My property in danger!" exclaimed Peter, wildly; "what do you mean; where is the danger?" Then, his voice sinking to its usual whine,—"not that I have any of any consequence, I am poor—very poor."
"Only from what I see I could easily believe it, but I happen to know better."
"Indeed, I am——"
"No more twaddle about poverty," said Randall, decidedly, "it won't go down. I am not so easily deceived as you may imagine. I know perfectly well that you are worth at the very least, thirty thousand dollars."
"Thirty thousand dollars!" exclaimed the miser, raising both hands in astonishment.
"Yes, Peter, and I don't know but I may say forty thousand. Why, it can't be otherwise, with your habits. Twenty years ago you made off with twenty thousand, which has been accumulating ever since. Your personal expenses haven't made very large inroads upon your income, judging from your scarecrow appearance. So much the worse for you. You might have got some good from it. Now it must go to others."
"To others!" exclaimed Peter, turning pale.
"Certainly. You don't think the law gives you whatever you've a mind to steal, do you? Of course there is no doubt that to your tenants, Eleanor and Charlie Codman, belongs this property which you wrongfully hold."
"They sha'n't have it. They never shall have it," said Peter Manson, hastily.
"Well, perhaps the law may have something to say about that."