"It's all right then, sar?" he said. "It will come out all right now, I'm sure—though, as I wanted to say"—and he hesitated—"I had hoped that you had forgotten those treasures that—"
"Go on, Tom."
"That moth and rust do corrupt."
"I know, dear old Tom, but neither moth nor rust can ever corrupt the treasure I meant—the treasure I have already found."
"You have found the treasure, sar?" asked Tom, in natural bewilderment.
"Yes, Tom, and I am going to show it to you—to-morrow."
The old man waited, as a mortal might wait till it pleased his god to speak a little more clearly.
"Quite true, Tom," I continued; "you shall see my treasure to-morrow; meanwhile, read this note." Tom was so much to me that I wanted him to know all about the details of the enterprise we shared together, and in which he risked his life no less than I risked mine.
Tom took out his spectacles from some recess of his trousers, and applied himself to Charlie Webster's note, as though it had been the Bible. He read it as slowly indeed as if it had been Sanscrit, and then folded it and handed it back to me without a word. But there was quite a young smile in his old eyes.
"'The wonderful works of God,'" he said presently. "I guess, sar, we shall soon be able to ask him what he meant by that expression."