“Just that I 've news for him here that would make a man a'most get out of his coffin,--news that would do more to cure him than all the doctors in Europe. There's paper in that bag there that only wants his name to them' to be worth thousands and thousands of pounds, and if he dies without signing them there's nothing but ruin to come of it; and when I said a ten-pound note awhile ago to you, it was a hundred gold sovereigns I meant, counted into the hollow of your fist, just as you sat there. See now, show me your hand.” As if in a sort of Jocular pantomime, the man held out his hand, and the other, taking a strong leather purse from his pocket, proceeded to untie the string, fastened with many a cunning device. At length it was opened, and, emptying out a quantity of its contents into one hand, he began to deposit the pieces, one by one, in the other's palm. “One, two, three, four,” went he on, leisurely, till the last sovereign dropped from his fingers with the words “one hundred!” Secret and safe as the bargain seemed, a pair of keen eyes peering through the half-snowed-up window had watched the whole negotiation, following the sergeant's fingers as they closed upon the gold and deposited it within his pocket. “Wait here, and I'll see what can be done by and by,” said the sergeant, as he moved away. Scarcely was the stranger left alone than the door opened, and a man entered, shaking the snow from his heavy boots and his long capote. “So, my worthy friend,” cried he, in a rich, soft voice, “you stole a march on me,--moved off without beat of drum, and took up a position before I was stirring!” “Ah, my reverend friend, _you_ here!” said the other, in evident confusion. “I never so much as suspected you were coming in this direction.” Paul Classon and Terry Driscoll stared long and significantly at each other. Of all those silences, which are more eloquent than words, none can equal that interval in which two consummate knaves exchange glances of recognition, so complete an appreciation is there of each other's gifts, such an honest, unaffected, frank interchange of admiration. “You are a clever fellow, Driscoll, you are!” said Paul, admiringly. “No, no. The Lord help me, I'm a poor crayture,” said Terry, shaking his head despondingly. “Don't believe it, man,--don't believe it,” said Paul, clapping him on the shoulder; “you have great natural gifts. Your face alone is worth a thousand a year, and you have a shuffling, shambling way of coming into a room that's better than an account at Coutts's. Joe Norris used to say that a slight palsy he had in one hand was worth twelve hundred a year to him at billiards alone.” “What a droll man you are, Mr. Classon!” said Terry, wiping his eyes as he laughed. And again they looked at each other long and curiously. “Driscoll,” said Paul, after a considerable pause, “on which side do you hold your brief?”