“Ay,” said the Squire passively. “Bring it in.”
Clement went out and returned, carrying in two small leather bags. He set them down at the Squire’s feet “There’s the gold, sir,” he said. “I’ve not counted it, but I’ve no doubt that it is right. It weighs a little short of a hundred pounds.”
The old man felt the bags, then, standing up, he lifted them in turn a few inches from the floor. “What does a thousand pounds weigh?” he asked.
“Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir.”
“And the notes?”
“I have them here.” Clement drew a thick packet from the pocket of his inner vest and put it into the Squire’s hands. “They’re Bank of England paper. They were short even at the bank, and wanted Bourdillon to take it in one-pound notes, but he stood out and got these in the end.”
The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovingly in his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a space! Six thousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, but in the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared old coat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt buttons that was his common wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looking before him, while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word of acknowledgment that did not come. At last, “Did you call at your father’s?” the old man asked—irrelevantly, it seemed.
Clement colored. He had not expected the question. “Well, I did, sir,” he admitted. “Bourdillon——”
“He was with you?”
“As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen to arrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that it might do some good, and that we might make that advantage of it. So I took it through the bank.”