She had no money in the house except a few shillings: and this was why the note was to be posted to her if we stayed at Worcester. You are often run short of money in rural country places: it's quite different from town, where the banks are at hand. We went through North Crabb, and met the doctor coming out at his door. Tod told him the Squire wanted some physicking. "Caught a cold, has he?" cried Cole. "If he will only be reasonable and keep himself warm in bed, we'll soon have that out of him." Cole lived close upon South Crabb--I think I've said so before. A few yards beyond his house the shops began. Salmon's was the fifth from the corner: a double shop, grocer's and draper's. The savings' bank was at Salmon's, and the post-office: he was the busiest tradesman in South Crabb, rather conceited over it, but very intelligent. His brother was in business at Timberdale. This is what occurred. "Will you be good enough to change this five-pound note for me, Mr. Salmon?" said Tod, laying the note down on the grocer's counter, on the left of the door, behind which Salmon stood, his grey hair carefully brushed and a white apron on. Salmon took the note up for a moment, and then unlocked the inner drawer of his till, where he kept his gold. He was counting out the five sovereigns when he paused; put them down, and picked up the note again quickly. I had seen his eyes fall on it. "Where did you get this note from, sir?" asked he of Tod. "From the Old Bank at Worcester." "Well, it's one of them notes that was lost in the robbery at Tewkesbury, unless I'm much mistaken," cried Salmon, beginning to turn over the leaves of a small account-book that he fetched from the post-office desk. "Ay, I thought I was right," he adds, running his finger across some figures on one of the pages. "I had the numbers correct enough in my head." "You must be out of your mind, Salmon," retorted Tod, in his defiant way. "That note was paid to my father yesterday at Worcester Old Bank." "I don't think it was, sir." "You don't think it was! Why, I was present. I saw Mr. Isaac count the notes out himself. Ten; and that was one of them." "Mr. Isaac never counted out this note," persisted Salmon. He smoothed it out on the counter as he spoke. I had not noticed it before: but it struck me now as I looked at it that it was _not_ the note I had put into the envelope at Worcester. That was a new, crisp note; this was not crisp, and it looked a little soiled. Tod turned passionate over it: he was just like the Squire in some things. "I don't understand your behaviour, Salmon. I can swear that this note was one given with the other nine at the bank yesterday, and given by Mr. Isaac." Salmon shook his head. As much as to say he knew to the contrary. "You'd better accuse Mr. Isaac of dealing in stolen notes--or me," cried hot Tod.