‘I beg your pardon,’ said Coyshe. ‘Does the suggestion offend you? I merely threw it out in the event of the money lent not turning up.’
Just then his eyes fell on something that lay under the seat. ‘What is that? Have you dropped a pocket-book?’
A rough large leather pocket-book that was to which he pointed. Mr. Jordan stooped and took it up. He examined it attentively and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
‘Well,’ said the surgeon mockingly, ‘is the money come, dropped from the clouds at your feet?’
‘No,’ answered Mr. Jordan, under his breath, ‘but this is most extraordinary, most mysterious! How comes this case here? It is the very same which I handed over, filled with notes, to that man seventeen years ago! See! there are my initials on it; there on the shield is my crest. How comes it here?’
‘The question, my dear sir, is not how comes it here? but what does it contain?’
‘Nothing.’
The surgeon put his hands in his pockets, screwed up his lips for a whistle, and said, ‘I foretold this, I am always right.’
‘The money is not due till Midsummer-day.’