"How much is there, Father?" he said, at length. He extended a grimy forefinger hesitatingly, as if to touch the package the priest balanced on his palm. But he did not touch it, any more than if it had been something sacred in that clean, sacerdotal hand.
"Fifty thousand," the priest answered. His voice was a trifle husky.
"Fifty thousand!" the man exclaimed. And then he added, in awe: "Dollars! Doesn't look like that much, does it?"
"No," Father Daugherty answered. He had been a little surprised himself. There was something disappointing in the size of the package. He had never seen so much money before, and its tremendous power, its tremendous power for evil, as he suddenly thought, was concentrated in a compass so small that the mind could but slowly wheel about to the new conception. The locksmith spoke.
"Might I—might I—hold it a second—in my own hand?" he said.
The priest gave the bundle into the hand hardened by so much honest toil. The man held it, heaving it up and down incredulously, testing its weight. Then he gave it back.
