two hundred pounds. Now I will give you, not because they are worth it, but because I think money ought to be more evenly divided, I will give you two hundred and fifty pounds."
"You'd better see them," replied Clay, rising.
He was back in less than five minutes, carrying a small tin biscuit-box, to which the crumbs of damp earth still clung. When the lid was removed the one feeble candle shone on layer upon layer of coins, all deepened by the action of time into a dull, obscuring black. What rarities, what hitherto unknown types and unique examples might not be revealed when, by a safe and proper process, all this disfigurement was removed?
Mr. Lester ran his hand through the tinkling mass. It was too bitter. He felt that he really could not leave them.
"I'll take them as they stand," he said. "I'll have all the risk and uncertainty, and I'll give you—yes, I'll give you five hundred pounds! A fortune!"
The sound of someone coming along the road caused Clay hastily to replace the lid, and as the gate creaked he disappeared through the back door to re-bury his treasure. It proved to be Rosie returning.
"Well? Eh?" urged Mr. Lester, as Clay re-entered.
He shook his head, and proceeded to affix the stamp to the packet.
"I'm going to post this now," he said shortly. "You lock up, Rose, till I'm back again."
"I'll go with you," volunteered Mr. Lester, who had a pardonable desire to see the packet safely posted. "I like an evening walk in any direction."
They walked together as far as the wall letter-box at the cross-roads, a quarter of a mile away, Mr. Lester smoking an aromatic cigar and explaining the beauty of the evening, his companion taciturn and unresponsive.
