"Yes," cried I, "that's one. Pray, let me look at it." "Certainly not, sir," responded the official, severely. "With regard to Mr. Townshend, I have my orders, but as respects him only." "Perfectly right," remarked the Bow Street runner, approvingly. "Then please to give it to me, my man. Are there any more?" "Yes, there are--78, 79, 80." "Good. That is four in all, then." The detective took them up, and showed them to me: of course, I could not identify them; but still I felt some awe to think what hands--hands imbued with blood, perchance--those notes might have passed through since I had seen Sir Massingberd thrust them into his pocket. "I cannot carry these away with me, my good friend, I suppose?" inquired Mr. Townshend, persuasively. "By no manner of means, Mr. Runner," replied the guardian of these unctuous treasures, with dignity. "His Majesty himself would never be so mad as to ask such a thing. A written order from the governor himself would not permit you to do it." "Very good, sir; then we won't trouble the governor to write one," returned the detective, dryly. "What I must know, however--permission or no permission--is this: by whose hand were these sweet-smelling and precious articles paid into the Bank of England?" It would have been amusing, under less anxious circumstances, to have watched the demeanour of these two personages, each jealous of the dignity of those by whom he was employed, and neither in the least disposed to surrender one tittle of his delegated authority. "That information will, no doubt, be supplied to you," replied the official, stiffly, "if it is thought right--and not otherwise. Follow me, gentlemen, if you please, and I will direct you to the office where such an application may be made."