"Twelve shillings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt's stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such." "I should like to take this one, I think," said the young man, choosing out one with a pink topaz. "Wait a bit, though: I must see if I've enough change to pay for it." "Oh, sir, don't trouble about that; we will put it down to you." "No, no, that won't do. One, two, four, six. Six shillings; all I have in the world," he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his porte-monnaie, "and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note, perhaps?" "Yes, sir, if you wish it." The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman. "The Squire's name is on it," he remarked. Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it was--"J. Todhetley," in the Squire's own handwriting. "Give me gold, if you can." Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight shillings in silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over that. Wishing the civil shopman good morning, the young man left. He stood outside the door for a minute, looking about him, and then walked briskly up the street. While Stephenson locked up the ten-pound note in the cash-box. There it lay, snug and safe, for two or three weeks. One day Stephenson, finding he had not enough change for a customer who came in to pay a bill, ran over to the draper's opposite and got change for it there. These were the particulars which Stephenson had furnished, and furnished readily, upon inquiries being made of him. * * * * * Squire Todhetley drove like the wind, and we soon reached Worcester, alighting as usual at the Star-and-Garter. The Squire's commotion had been growing all the way; that goes without telling. He wanted to take the bank first; Tom Chandler recommended that it should be the silversmith's. "The bank comes first in the way," snapped the Squire. "I know that, sir; but we can soon come back to it when we have heard what the others say." Yet I think he would have gone into the bank head-foremost, as we passed it, but chance had it that we met Corles, the lawyer, at the top of Broad Street. Turning quickly into High Street, on his way from his office, he came right upon us. The Squire pinned him by the button-hole. "The very man I wanted to see," cried he. "And now you'll be good enough to tell me, Edward Corles, what you meant by that rigmarole you wrote to Paul yesterday about my son." "I cannot tell what was meant, Squire, any more than you can; I only wrote in accordance with my information," said Mr. Corles, shaking hands with the rest of us. "You have done well to come over; and I will accompany you now, if you like, to see Stephenson."