Guy stooped down to
pick it up with a whirling sense of surprise. Great heavens! what
was this? Not only the clasp, but the pocket-book itself--the
pocket-book filled full and crammed to bursting with papers. Ah,
mercy, what papers? Yes, incredible--the money! Hundred-pound
notes! Not a doubt upon earth of it. The whole of the stolen and
re-stolen three thousand.
For a minute or two Guy stood there, unable to believe his own
swimming eyes. What on earth could have happened? Was it chance or
design? Had Nevitt deliberately thrown away his ill-gotten gains?
Were detectives on the track? Was he anxious to conceal his part in
the theft? Had remorse got the better of him? Or was he frightened
at last, thinking Guy was on his way to recover and restore Cyril's
stolen property?
But no, the pocket-book was neither hidden in the ferns nor
yet studiously thrown away. From the place where it lay, Guy felt
confident at once it had fallen unperceived from Nevitt's pocket,
and been trodden by his heel unawares into the yielding leaf-mould.
Had he pulled it out accidentally with his handkerchief? Very likely,
Guy thought. But then, how strange and improbable that a man so
methodical and calculating as Nevitt should carry such valuable
belongings as those in the self-same pocket.
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