"
Louis looked round the room, which was almost empty, save for the waiters
preparing the tables for supper.
"Mr. Bundercombe," he said, with a little gesture of resignation, "it is
because of those dealings that I came to trouble."
Mr. Bundercombe eyed him steadily.
"Go on!" he ordered.
Louis moved closer still to the table.
"It was those banknotes, Mr. Bundercombe," he confessed. "You gave me one
packet to be destroyed in the kitchen. I obeyed; but I looked at them
first. Never did I see such wonderful work! Those notes--every one seemed
real! Every one, as I put it into the fire, gave my heart a pang.
"And then, the other time--when you slipped them under the table to me
because Mr. Cullen was about! I took them, too, to the fire. I destroyed
one, two, three, four, five--one dozen--two dozen; and then I came to the
last two or three, and my fingers--they went slow. I could not bear it. I
thought what could be done. My wife she was not well. I could send her to
Italy. I owe a little bill. The tips--they had not been good lately.
Behold! There was one ten-pound note left when all the others were
destroyed. I put him in my waistcoat pocket."
"Go on!" Mr. Bundercombe said encouragingly.
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