“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.”
“Morris,” said Michael, laying his hand upon his shoulder, “hear reason. It wasn’t us, it was the other man. We never even searched the body.”
“The other man?” repeated Morris.
“Yes, the other man. We palmed Uncle Joseph off upon another man,” said Michael.
“You what? You palmed him off? That’s surely a singular expression,” said Morris.
“Yes, palmed him off for a piano,” said Michael with perfect simplicity. “Remarkably full, rich tone,” he added.
Morris carried his hand to his brow and looked at it; it was wet with sweat. “Fever,” said he.
“No, it was a Broadwood grand,” said Michael. “Pitman here will tell you if it was genuine or not.”
“Eh? O! O yes, I believe it was a genuine Broadwood; I have played upon it several times myself,” said Pitman. “The three-letter E was broken.”
“Don’t say anything more about pianos,” said Morris, with a strong shudder; “I’m not the man I used to be! This—this other man—let’s come to him, if I can only manage to follow. Who is he? Where can I get hold of him?”