"What bag is it?" inquired Dr. Dickenson, who, of course, had known nothing of this. "What was in it?"
"A small canvas bag containing some gold that Mr. George Coney had wished to leave here until Monday," I answered.
"'Twas one of our sample barley bags; I happened to have it in my pocket when I left home," explained the young man. "My father's initials were on it: S. C."
"How much was in it?" asked Lennard.
"Thirty pounds."
"I fear you will be obliged to go without it, after all," I said, when I had turned everything over, "for it is not to be found. I will remit you thirty pounds on Monday. We send our spare cash to the bank on Saturday afternoons, so that I have not so much in the house: and I really do not know where Mr. Brightman has put the cheque-book. It is strange that he should have taken the bag out of the drawer again."
"Perhaps it may be in one of his pockets," suggested the doctor. "Shall I search them?"
"No, no," interposed George Coney. "I wouldn't have the poor gentleman disturbed just for that. You'll remit it to me, Mr. Strange. Not to my father," he added, with a smile: "to me."
I went down with him, and there sat Leah at the bottom of the stairs, leaning her head against the banisters, almost under the hall lamp. "When did you come in, Leah?" I asked.
She rose hastily, and faced me. "I thought you were out, sir. I have come in only this instant."