Felgate flung the unlucky parcel down on the table, and called himself a fool for ever having meddled with it.
Was it possible he himself had been made a fool of, and that these precious proofs had after all been trumped up by that young scapegrace, Herapath, to hoodwink him?
At any rate, Arthur might have his property back now, and much good might it do him. He should—
Felgate started as he suddenly caught sight of what looked like a blade of grass protruding from a rent in the brown paper.
He looked again. It was not one blade only, but two or three. With an exclamation of consternation he tore off the covering and disclosed—the turf!
A joke? No wonder Mr Bickers’s manner had been a trifle stiff that morning.
However had it got there? It was like a conjurer’s trick. No one had seen or touched the parcel but himself. He had himself placed it in Mr Bickers’s hands. Indeed, from the time he had taken the things from Herapath’s cupboard till the moment of parting with them, he had scarcely had his eyes off it.
Stay! That evening he was at the Forum, he had left it for an hour unguardedly in his room. Yet, even then, he could almost have sworn the parcel had been untouched in his absence. Besides, the letter was there still, directed in his own hand.
He picked up the envelope, to satisfy himself it was the same. Of course it was; and he had explained in his letter what the articles were.
He took out the letter and glanced at it; and as he did so the blood rushed to his face, and he knew at last that he had been made a fool of.