Phillips agreed readily enough to this suggestion, and assisted the officer's search of his pockets, a procedure which yielded nothing.
"Dat boy's no t'ief," 'Poleon whispered to Rouletta. "M'sieu' le Comte has been frisk' by somebody." The girl did not answer. She was intently watching the little drama before her.
During the search Miller forced his way out of the ring of spectators, unlocked the gate of the cashier's cage, and passed inside. "We keep our takin's in one pile, and I'll lay a little eight to five that they'll balance up with the checks to a pennyweight," said he. "Just wait till I add up the figgers and weigh—" He paused; he stooped; then he rose with something he had picked up from the floor beneath his feet.
"What have you got, Ben?" It was Rock speaking.
"Dam' if I know! There it is." The proprietor shoved a clean, new moose-skin gold-sack through the wicket.
Rock examined the bag, then he lifted an inquiring gaze to Pierce Phillips. There was a general craning of necks, a shifting of feet, a rustle of whispers.
"Ah!" mockingly exclaimed Courteau. "I was dreaming, eh? To be sure!"
He laughed disagreeably.
"Is this 'house' money?" inquired the redcoat.
Miller shook his head in some bewilderment. "We don't keep two kitties.
I'll weigh it and see if it adds up with the Count's—"
"Oh, it will add up!" Phillips declared, his face even whiter than before. "It's a plant, so of course it will add up."