"I saw your son outside. It was easy to recognize him as your son."
"Why?"
Peter Kirby touched his teeth with a significant gesture.
"He has your teeth," he said. "They are a perfect facsimile."
"Yes," said the squire soberly. "He too is cursed with this deformity."
"Still, as teeth, I have no doubt they are strong and—durable."
"Yes, they will last me all my life. I have no excuse for having them extracted, and procuring an artificial set. Yet I want to do it, if I were not a coward as regards dentists. But, to come back to business. I shall hand you these bills, and ask you to exchange them for bills of other denominations. You can send them to me in an express package."
"There will be some risk about this, won't there, as it is known that the stolen money was in fifty-dollar bills?"
"Not if you go far enough away. I shall want you to go to Chicago on other business which I will communicate to you. There you will have no difficulty in effecting the change."