He took the tongs, and presently flung into the middle of the room a small oilskin packet. This, as it lay on the ground, they both eyed like two deer glowering at a piece of red cloth, and ready to leap back over the moon if it should show signs of biting. But oil-skin is not preternatural, nor has tradition connected it, however remotely, with the Enemy of man. Consequently, a great revulsion took place in Nancy, and she passed from fear to indignation at having been frightened so. She ran to the fireplace, and, putting her head up the chimney, screamed, "Heave your dirt where you heave your love, ye Brazen!" While she was objurgating her neighbor, whom, with feminine justice, she held responsible for every act done in her house, Penfold undid the packet, and Nancy returned to her seat, with her mind more at ease, to examine the contents. "Bank-notes!" cried Penfold. "Ay," said Nancy incredulously, "they do look like bank-notes, and feel like 'em; but they ain't wrote like them. Bank-notes ain't wrote black like that in the left-hand corner." Penfold explained. "Ten-pound notes are not, nor fives; but large notes are. These are all fifties." "Fifty whats?" "Fifty pounds." "What, each of them bits of paper worth fifty pounds?" "Yes. Let us count them; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18--Oh, Lord!--20. Why, that is two thousand pounds--just two thousand pounds. It is the very sum that ruined me; it did not belong to me, and it's being in the house ruined my poor Robert. And this does not belong to you. Lock all the doors, bar all the windows, and burn them before the police come." "Wait a bit," said Nancy--"wait a bit." They sat on each side of the notes; Penfold agitated and terrified, Nancy confounded and perplexed. CHAPTER LVIII. PUNCTUALLY at ten o'clock Helen returned to Frith Street, and found Mr. Undercliff behind a sort of counter, employed in tracing; a workman was seated at some little distance from him; both bent on their work. "Mr. Undercliff?" said Helen. He rose and turned toward her politely--a pale, fair man, with a keen gray eye and a pleasant voice and manner; "I am Edward Undercliff. You come by appointment?" "Yes, sir." "A question of handwriting?" "Not entirely, sir. Do you remember giving witness in favor of a young clergyman, Mr. Robert Penfold, who was accused of forgery?" "I remember the circumstance, but not the details." "Oh, dear! that is unfortunate," said Helen, with a deep sigh; she often had to sigh now. "Why, you see," said the expert, "I am called on such a multitude of trials. However, I take notes of the principal ones. What year was it in?" "In 1864."