“They were in the act of breaking into your house to rob you when we turned up, intending to prevent them carrying out their plan, which I fortunately overheard.”
“Why should they want to rob me when I’m only a poor old man?” cried the miser, in a pathetic voice.
“They think you have lots of money hidden in your house,” replied Dick.
“Not a cent—not a single cent!” wailed the old man, beating the air with his arms in a sort of abject denial.
Dick of course believed Adam Fairclough was not telling the truth.
He had always heard people say the man was worth thousands of dollars.
That he owned half a dozen good farms which he rented out to thrifty tenants.
That he held mortgages on a dozen more.
That he had a strong-box filled with family plate that had not been used for fifty years, and a second one stuffed with gold and banknotes he had taken out of circulation in order to hoard up for the mere pleasure of accumulation.
Probably the old man’s wealth was greatly exaggerated, but there seemed little doubt that he was tolerably rich.