The old vagabond was settled again in his armchair, with his dog in his lap, his pipe in his mouth, and his French novel in his hand; exhibiting exactly the picture of frowzy comfort which he had presented when his visitors first entered the room.
"Good-day," said Mr.Troy, with haughty condescension.
"Don't interrupt me!" rejoined Old Sharon, absorbed in his novel.
"You've had your guinea's worth.

Lord! what a lovely book this is! Don't interrupt me!" "Impudent scoundrel!" said Mr.Troy, when he and Moody were in the street again.

"What could my friend mean by recommending him?
Fancy his expecting me to trust him with ten pounds! I consider even the guinea completely thrown away." "Begging your pardon, sir," said Moody, "I don't quite agree with you there." "What! you don't mean to tell me you understand that oracular sentence of his--'Suspect the very last person on whom suspicion could possibly fall.' Rubbish!" "I don't say I understand it, sir.

I only say it has set me thinking." "Thinking of what?
Do your suspicions point to the thief ?" "If you will please to excuse me, Mr.Troy, I should like to wait a while before I answer that." Mr.Troy suddenly stood still, and eyed his companion a little distrustfully.
"Are you going to turn detective-policeman on your own account ?" he asked.
"There's nothing I won't turn to, and try, to help Miss Isabel in this matter," Moody answered, firmly.

"I have saved a few hundred pounds in Lady Lydiard's service, and I am ready to spend every farthing of it, if I can only discover the thief." Mr.Troy walked on again.