Mr. Preen got into his gig at the saddler’s door and set off again. Turning into High Street, he drove gently down it, looking out on all sides, if truth must be told, for Oliver. This caused him to see Stephenson standing at the silversmith’s door, the silversmith himself, back now for good at his business, being behind the counter. Now and then, since the bank-note was traced, Mr. Preen had made inquiries of Stephenson as to whether any news had been heard of its changer, but he had not done so lately. Not being in a hurry, he pulled up against the curb-stone. Stephenson crossed the flags to speak.
“Nothing turned up yet, I suppose?” said Mr. Preen.
“Well, I can hardly say it has,” replied Stephenson; “but I’ve seen the gentleman who paid it in to us.”
“And who is it? and where was he?” cried Preen, eagerly.
Stephenson had stepped back a pace, and appeared to be looking critically at the horse and gig.
“It was last Saturday,” he said, coming close again. “I had to take a parcel into Friar Street for one of our country customers, a farmer’s wife who was spending the day with some people living down there, and I saw a gig bowling along. The young fellow in it was the one who changed the note.”
“Are you sure of it?” returned Mr. Preen.
“Quite sure, sir. I had no opportunity of speaking to him or stopping him. He was driving at a good pace, and the moment he caught sight of me, for I saw him do that, he touched the horse and went on like a whirlwind.”
Mr. Preen’s little dark face took a darker frown. “I should have stopped him,” he said, sternly. “You ought to have rushed after him, Stephenson, and called upon the street to help in the pursuit. You might, at least, have traced where he went to. A gig, you say he was in?”
“Yes,” said Stephenson. “And, unless I am greatly mistaken, it was this very gig you are in now.”