tching up what lay beneath, he uttered a loud ejaculation and tapped
it sharply against the bed-post.

"What have you got there, uncle?"

"Pickle, my boy, it's my twenty guineas that we thought they'd stolen.
What in the name of forceps and lancets did they tie them up in this old
silk rag for? It's a bit of a pocket-handkerchief."

"Why, uncle," cried Rodd, laughing, "it isn't going to be so bad, after
all. Somebody's been having a game with us."

"Game, eh? Queer sort of a game, Pickle," cried Uncle Paul; and with
very little effort he tore open the silk envelope and poured out a
little heap of bright gold coins upon the bed. "Napoleons, by all
that's wonderful!" he cried. "Exchange! I begin to see now, boy. He's
taken my good gold money, whoever he is, and left this French trash.
Here, give me that book. Mind--don't drop my watch."

"I have got it safe, uncle," replied the boy, handing the big book to
his uncle.

"Humph!" grunted Uncle Paul. "Not quite such a scoundrel as he might
have been, whoever it is that wrote it. Exchange, eh? But there's been
no exchange about our clothes. Humph! All in French, of course. If he
had been a gentleman, and he couldn't understand plain English, he would
have written it in Latin. Bah! How I do hate that pernicketty French!
Let's see--let's see. Oh yes, here it all is. Ask pardon for two poor
prisoners trying to escape--um, um, um--years of misery. Generous
Englishman--some day--_remerciments_. Ah, it's all scribbled horribly--
in the dark, I suppose. Oh, he's signed it, though, Pickle. `Des Saix,
Comte.' Oh, there are two of them, then. The other's signed his name
too--quite a different hand. `Morny des Saix, Vicomte.' H'm! Well, I
suppose they are gentlemen."

"Noblemen, uncle."

"Bah! Noblemen wouldn't do a thing like that!"

"What are those other words, uncle, under the last name?"

"Um--um--um! `May God bless you for what you did to-day. Your friend
till death.' Why, Pickle, you ought to have been able to read that
yourself."

"I did, uncle, but I wanted to be sure that I was right. Why, that must
have been the boy I helped to escape."

"Yes, and he dodged us home, and as good as robbed us."

"Oh, uncle! Shame!"

"How dare you, sir! What do you mean by it, Rodney? Do you forget who
I am, sir?"

"No."

"And pray who am I then, sir?"

"Dear old Uncle Paul, who has got out of bed the wrong way this
morning!"

"H'm--ha!