“Letter! from your mother?”
“Yes; the people of the house didn't find out that, when they took the money that was in the paper of directions away from me. I brought it all the way safe enough in my bosom, until this morning.”
“And where is it now?”
“That naughty constable took it from me. He opened it and read it.”
“D—t—n!” exclaimed Sir Waldron; “then all is known, and I shall be every booby's jest.”
He had scarcely uttered these words, when the door of the room was opened, and The Reverend Reginald Hackle entered, with an open note in his hand. He was followed by the citizen: Reginald looked more grave than usual; but Archibald seemed with difficulty to restrain himself from laughing “Waldron,” said he, “we have just wormed a letter out of Constable Quality.”
The baronet snatched it from Reginald's hand; looked first at the superscription, which bore his name and address, and then hastily perused the contents.
“The blockhead's excuse,” continued Archibald, “for not producing this, which I consider, under correction, a document of importance as regards the examination, is, that you cut Batter short in his statement of the particulars of his searching the prisoners.”
“And is this rightly addressed to you, brother? Are you indeed the man?” asked Reginald, in a tone of reproach.
“Well, she's a pretty child; a very pretty child, indeed, Waldron,” said Archibald, taking the little girl in his arms. “Come, kiss your uncle, my dear: I suppose I may call her yours, Waldron.”