I now had Morley carefully watched during the hours he was free from his work. I changed the men occasionally, and never watched him myself, that he might not take alarm, but nothing came of the watching. Morley never once attempted to change a fifty pound note, never appeared a penny richer than before the robbery, and never went near any place likely to be used for the concealment of the notes. The only thing that concerned me was the fact that he was preparing to leave the country, nor could I make that a ground for suspicion, as he had begun those arrangements long before the date of the robbery. At length I grew impatient, and took to relieving the men watching him after dark, as then there was little chance of him recognising me. Morley generally took a solitary stroll after partaking of his frugal supper, and on one of these occasions he stopped before a broker’s in the Potterrow, a place suspected to be a kind of “wee pawn”—that is, an unlicensed pawnbroker’s. Morley looked in at the window first, then all round him, and then walked into the shop, and was soon engaged in a violent altercation with the boy in charge. He stormed, and he threatened, and he swore, and I could see his arms moving about more energetically than those of a preacher “dingin’ the poopit cushion a’ to bits,” but I was afraid to venture near enough to hear the words and understand their meaning. At length he left the shop in a furious and excited state, volubly threatening to “send the police” to them. I was strongly tempted to offer my services, but, being curious to learn the cause of the dispute, I allowed the blustering man to depart, and then entered the shop. The boy was a smart young shaver named Tim Cordiner, and knew me perfectly. “What did Morley kick up such a row about?” I asked. Tim put on an air of simplicity and said— “Who’s Morley?” “That man who was here just now.” “His name isn’t Morley—it’s Peter Mackintosh,” said Tim, with an air of superior knowledge. “Oh, is it? I beg your pardon,” I returned, with a fine-drawn sneer, which Tim perfectly appreciated. “Well, what was he in such a state about?” Tim fenced cunningly, but finding me in dead earnest, was forced at last to say—“He’s in a state about something which he sold to my father, and wants now to buy back again. He says the agreement was that it was to be kept for a month, to give him a chance to buy it back. Did you ever hear the like? We’re not allowed to do that,” the monkey solemnly added, “it would be as bad as keeping a ‘wee pawn.’” “Oh, come now, Tim, don’t try that with me; play ‘the daft laddie’ with somebody else,” I laughingly returned. “What was the article he sold or left with you?” “A Bible—a Family Bible——” “Good gracious!”