"Cut the threads," said Mr. Bramble, readjusting his big spectacles. "It is sewed at the ends."
The old bookseller was the first of the stupefied men to speak after the contents of the rubber bag were revealed to view.
"God bless my soul!" he gasped.
Bank notes,—many of them,—lay in de Bosky's palm.
Almost mechanically he began to count them. They were of various denominations, none smaller than twenty dollars. The eyes of the men popped as he ran off in succession two five-hundred-dollar bills.
Downstairs in the shop of J. Bramble, some one was pounding violently on a counter, but without results. He could produce no one to wait on him. He might as well have tried to rouse the dead.
"Clever rascal," said M. Mirabeau at last. "The last place in the world one would think of looking for plunder."
"What do you mean?" asked de Bosky, still dazed.
"It is quite simple," said the Frenchman. "Who but your enterprising friend, the cracksman, could have thought of anything so original as hiding money in the lining of a fur overcoat? He leaves the coat in your custody, knowing you to be an honest man. At the expiration of his term, he will reclaim—"
"Ah, but he has still a matter of ten or eleven years to serve," agreed de Bosky. "A great deal could happen in ten or eleven years. He would not have taken so great a risk. He—"
"Um!" mused M. Mirabeau, frowning. "That is so."
