‘Ah, but I can’t declare it,’ said Michael.
‘Why not?’ cried Morris.
‘I can’t produce the corpus, Morris. I’ve lost it,’ said the lawyer.
‘Stop a bit,’ ejaculated the leather merchant. ‘How is this? It’s not possible. I lost it.’
‘Well, I’ve lost it too, my son,’ said Michael, with extreme serenity. ‘Not recognizing it, you see, and suspecting something irregular in its origin, I got rid of—what shall we say?—got rid of the proceeds at once.’
‘You got rid of the body? What made you do that?’ walled Morris. ‘But you can get it again? You know where it is?’
‘I wish I did, Morris, and you may believe me there, for it would be a small sum in my pocket; but the fact is, I don’t,’ said Michael.
‘Good Lord,’ said Morris, addressing heaven and earth, ‘good Lord, I’ve lost the leather business!’
Michael was once more shaken with laughter.
‘Why do you laugh, you fool?’ cried his cousin, ‘you lose more than I. You’ve bungled it worse than even I did. If you had a spark of feeling, you would be shaking in your boots with vexation. But I’ll tell you one thing—I’ll have that eight hundred pound—I’ll have that and go to Swan River—that’s mine, anyway, and your friend must have forged to cash it. Give me the eight hundred, here, upon this platform, or I go straight to Scotland Yard and turn the whole disreputable story inside out.’