“Twelve shillings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt’s stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such.”
“I should like to take this one, I think,” said the young man, choosing out one with a pink topaz. “Wait a bit, though: I must see if I’ve enough change to pay for it.”
“Oh, sir, don’t trouble about that; we will put it down to you.”
“No, no, that won’t do. One, two, four, six. Six shillings; all I have in the world,” he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his porte-monnaie, “and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note, perhaps?”
“Yes, sir, if you wish it.”
The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman.
“The Squire’s name is on it,” he remarked.
Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it was—“J. Todhetley,” in the Squire’s own handwriting.
“Give me gold, if you can.”
Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight shillings in silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over that.