"I don't know's 'tis, but it's sunthin surprisin' that he should have one of the bags the old man kept his money in, in his state-room," said the officer, with a sneer.
"How do you know that is one of the bags?"
"How do I know?" repeated the constable, taking the bag from his pocket. "Mr. Fairfield told me he writ his name on all the bags. There it is."
The bag was exhibited, and over the imprint of the manufacturers of the shot it had originally contained was the name, "N. Fairfield," rudely traced in large, awkward characters, in pencil, on the cloth. Levi saw it, and the formation of the two capital letters assured him it had been written by his uncle. The bag was found in one of his drawers; but it was plain that "an enemy had done this."
"If that don't satisfy you, Mr. Watson, I don't know what will. This ain't pleasant business, but I can't help it," added Constable Cooke, who perhaps had begun to think it was imprudent to offend a rich man.
"That doesn't satisfy me," replied the obstinate merchant. "Do you suppose Levi put that bag and the gold into the drawer?"
"I suppose he did, sir. That's his state-room—isn't it?"
"There are half a dozen places there with locks on them. Do you think he would put his money into a drawer without any lock upon it?"
"I don't know anything about that," answered the constable, who could not help seeing that the argument was a good one. "I've got a warrant for his arrest."
"Did you know the money was there before you came on board?" demanded Mr. Watson, warmly.