"Two thousand pounds in a
box!" He had always suspected that the old man kept something in a
stocking-foot, and had often rallied him upon his unnecessary caution
with respect to investments; but this statement of his appeared
incredible.
"What does it matter if it was twenty thousand, when I tell you it's
gone," said Trevethick, sullenly. "That limb of the devil, Yorke, is off
with every shilling of it."
"Do you mean to say _he's_ stolen it?" inquired the other, even more
astonished than before.
"He's taken it to Plymouth with him, that's all."
Solomon Coe was a man of action, and prompt in emergencies, but for the
moment he was fairly staggered. He had no liking for Richard, but such a
charge as this appeared incredible; it seemed more likely that the old
man had repented of his late offer of the loan of five hundred pounds,
and had invented this monstrous fiction to excuse himself.
"Where was the box kept?" asked Solomon, dryly.
For a moment or two Trevethick was silent.
"It is as I suspected," thought the other; "the old man is making up the
story as he goes on."
But the fact was that this question had gone to the very root of the
matter, and opened Trevethick's dull eyes wide. In his chagrin at his
loss (though he did believe it would be temporary), and irritation at
his sagacity having been set at naught, he had overlooked the most
serious feature of the whole catastrophe.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314