The Man Who Kept His Money in a BoxTrollope, Anthony
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The Man Who Kept His Money in a Box
Trollope, Anthony
British -- Europe -- Fiction; Short stories; Travelers -- Fiction
I retired to my own room for a while that I might think over all the
circumstances. There certainly had been seven boxes, and one had had a
hole in the canvas. All the seven had certainly been on board the
steamer. To so much I felt that I might safely swear. I had not counted
the seven into the small boat, but on leaving the larger vessel I had
looked about the deck to see that none of the Greene trappings were
forgotten. If left on the steamer, it had been so left through an intent
on the part of some one there employed. It was quite possible that the
contents of the box had been ascertained through the imprudence of Mrs.
Greene, and that it had been conveyed away so that it might be rifled at
Como. As to Mrs. Greene’s assertion that all the boxes had been put into
the small boat, I thought nothing of it. The people at Bellaggio could
not have known which box to steal, nor had there been time to concoct the
plan in carrying the boxes up to the hotel. I came at last to this
conclusion, that the missing trunk had either been purloined and carried
on to Como,—in which case it would be necessary to lose no time in going
after it; or that it had been put out of sight in some uncommonly clever
way, by the Greenes themselves, as an excuse for borrowing as much money
as they could raise and living without payment of their bills. With
reference to the latter hypothesis, I declared to myself that Greene did
not look like a swindler; but as to Mrs. Greene—! I confess that I did
not feel so confident in regard to her.
Charity begins at home, so I proceeded to make myself comfortable in my
room, feeling almost certain that I should not be able to leave Bellaggio
on the following morning. I had opened my portmanteau when I first
arrived, leaving it open on the floor as is my wont. Some people are
always being robbed, and are always locking up everything; while others
wander safe over the world and never lock up anything. For myself, I
never turn a key anywhere, and no one ever purloins from me even a
handkerchief. Cantabit vacuus—, and I am always sufficiently vacuus.
Perhaps it is that I have not a handkerchief worth the stealing. It is
your heavy-laden, suspicious, mal-adroit Greenes that the thieves attack.
I now found out that the accommodating Boots, who already knew my ways,
had taken my travelling gear into a dark recess which was intended to do
for a dressing-room, and had there spread my portmanteau open upon some
table or stool in the corner. It was a convenient arrangement, and there
I left it during the whole period of my sojourn.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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