“Do I know him?”
“No.”
“Does he know me?”
“No.”
“Yet he thinks me innocent! God bless him!—God bless him! He must be an eccentric man, though, to help the helpless like that?”
“Somewhat,” said the solicitor, so dryly that Tom winced.
“You think I haven’t the ghost of a chance?”
“I never said so. Nor do I think it. But you made a mistake in destroying that cheque.”
“He destroyed it when I gave it him back.”
“There would have been less possible motive with the cheque in your possession; you could have taken proceedings on that alone.”
“Ay, but I meant to take them with my own hands!”
Tom would have recalled the words next instant. He saw even the hardened and alert police-court attorney shrink away as he said them. Bassett took a handful of silver from his pocket, counted a sovereign’s-worth, and handed it to Tom.
“There,” said he coldly, “I had that for you with my instructions, and you will need it at Newgate if you want to be comfortable. Use it freely. See you there tomorrow.” And he was gone with repulsion ill-concealed. Half-way to his office in Clipstone Street, he overhauled Daintree crossing Portland Place.
“Well? well?” cried Daintree. “I didn’t want to be seen waiting for you; but what do you make of it?”
“You’ll be throwing your money away—that’s a guilty man.”
“You think so?”
