“The first that I knows on,” returned Flinders.
“Tell me—does Westly know of this proposal of yours?”
“No sor, he doesn’t.”
“Ah, I thought not. With his religious notions, it would be difficult for him to join in an attempt to bribe me to stop the course of justice.”
“Well, sor, you’re not far wrong, for Muster Westly had bin havin’ a sort o’ tussle wid his conscience on that very pint. You must know, he had made up his mind to do this very thing an’ offer you all his savings—a thousand pound, more or less—to indooce you to help to save his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he couldn’t do it.”
“Did he tell you who stole his gold?”
“No, sor, he didn’t—he said that some feller had took it—on loan, like, though I calls it stalin’—but he didn’t say who.”
“And have you had no tussle with your conscience, Flinders, about this business?”
The Irishman’s face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement at this question.
“It’s jokin’ ye are, Muster Gashford. Sure, now, me conscience—if I’ve got wan—doesn’t bother me oftin; an’ if it did, on this occasion, I’d send it to the right-about double quick, for it’s not offerin’ ye five hundred pound I am to stop the coorse o’ justice, but to save ye from committin’ murther! Give Muster Brixton what punishment the coort likes—for stailin’—only don’t hang him. That’s all we ask.”