'No,' said he contemplatively, 'there is nothing aloft. Not a box there, not a drawer is locked, and I have overhauled all the bunks. No keys in his pocket. He is deep.'
He planted himself in a chair, placed his elbows on his knees, and set his chin in his hands. His cunning, wicked eyes roved about the room.
'Dang it, Jane,' said he, 'it is somewhere. He is not the man to bury his money in a bank. Besides, had he done that, there would have been a pass-book. I have not found one anywhere. I have looked into every chest and turned out every drawer, and poked into every nook upstairs. This room is not ceiled or I would have said there was a place between the plancheon and plaster. But that cannot be. Now I'll rummage the inner room.'
'That has been mine,' said Jane. 'And that hole under the stair is where my Winney has slept.'
'It is more like to be in the kitchen,' said Dench. 'He would not trust it where a woman made her lair. But if here, it will not be where any one else would make a hiding-place, as beneath the hearthstone or up the chimney, nor under the floor. It is certain to be in the very last place that would occur to any other man but he.'
He went to the clockcase.
'This is not going. Is there aught stops the works?'
'The clock has run down,' said Jane Marley.
She was uneasy, fearing lest he should find the hiding-place, but she did not allow her feelings to transpire. She assumed a sulky mood.
He turned to the window and lifted the lid of the seat. 'There is a box here.'