"No, I didn't venture to use one of the fifty dollars. I used other money which I had." "Then you have the money by you still?" "Yes." Squire Bates rose from his seat, locked the door, and then opening a small cabinet drew out a roll of bills—which he counted before his visitor. "See," he said, "Here are twenty bills, amounting in all to a thousand dollars." Peter Kirby's eyes brightened covetously as he eyed this large sum of money. "It was a good haul for one man to make, in a quiet place like this," he said. "So I flatter myself," said Squire Bates complacently. "But I can't help expressing my surprise at your burying yourself in such a small, out of the way place. If you were in one of our large cities, for instance, it would be much more convenient, and the rest of the band could communicate with you better." Squire Bates rose and paced the room thoughtfully. "That is true," he said, after a pause, "but you must remember also that I should stand a better chance of being recognized in a large and important place, where there is a well disciplined and efficient police force and an organized body of detectives. No one would think of looking for me in a small, unimportant village like Waterford, where I pass as the village lawyer, and have a commission as justice of the peace." "How do you sustain the part of a lawyer?" "I have a few law books, and there was a time in earlier years—I think I was nineteen—when I passed six months in the office of a lawyer, where I picked up some of the rudiments of practical jurisprudence." "Where was that?" "In a Western town, not far from Chicago. Here no very complicated matters come before me. I am perfectly competent to draft a will, to write out a deed, make out a lease, and so on—that is all that is required of me." "You must find it very dull living here. I couldn't stand it." "I must live somewhere, and you must remember that I have a wife and son who are entirely ignorant of my real character." "They suppose you to be a lawyer?" "Yes." "I saw your son outside. It was easy to recognize him as your son." "Why?" Peter Kirby touched his teeth with a significant gesture. "He has your teeth," he said. "They are a perfect _facsimile_." "Yes," said the squire soberly. "He too is cursed with this deformity." "Still, as teeth, I have no doubt they are strong and—durable." "Yes, they will last me all my life. I have no excuse for having them extracted, and procuring an artificial set. Yet I want to do it, if I were not a coward as regards dentists. But, to come back to business. I shall hand you these bills, and ask you to exchange them for bills of other denominations. You can send them to me in an express package." "There will be some risk about this, won't there, as it is known that the stolen money was in fifty-dollar bills?"