there! It 's right as Rechts. May I die! 'Tis surely."
He looked up anxiously, and put a protecting hand upon it.
The policeman moved it roughly forward and saw a label upon the back. He remembered the sale and let it go again.
"Yes," he said, "that 's all right, Samuel."
A dusty book, the binding half torn off of it, lay upon a shelf, worthless if anything was. Mr. Ferguson took it up mechanically, hardly knowing what he was at; but as he did so he heard an almost imperceptible sound coming from the old receiver's mouth, a sort of gasp. It was a sound that betrayed anxiety, and it warned him. He picked up that book and opened it. It was a copy of Halidon's History of Ormeston. He turned the leaves mechanically, and was banging it down again, when there appeared a thing unusual in the leaves of such a book—a corner of much whiter paper, crinkly and crisp, unmistakable. Mr. Ferguson pulled out a five-pound note.
"Wish I may " began the husky old voice almost inaudibly, and then ceased.
Mr. Ferguson turned round and winked enormously.
