Anthony Hope

“ There remained then, the money in the Tower. I could make quite sure of that, wait for his death, and then enjoy it. And, upon my word, why shouldn’t I? He’d have been much gratified by my going to Morocco; and he’d certainly much sooner that I had the money—if it couldn’t go to Morocco—than that the Radbolts should get it. That was the way the question presented itself to me; and I’m a poor man, with no obvious career before me. The right of conquest appealed to me strongly, Doctor Mary.”
“I can see that you may have been greatly tempted,” said Mary in a grave and troubled voice. ”

“ If I weren’t an infernally poor conspirator, I should have covered up the Captain’s grave, and made everything neat and tidy before I came to fetch you, because I knew he might go back to the Tower. On his bad nights he always made me open the grave, and spread out the money, make a show of it, you know. ”

“ I shall communicate with the Radbolts—fully; they’ll take charge of the funeral, I suppose. Well, he won’t know anything about that now, thank God!” There was the slightest tremor in his voice as he spoke.
Mary did not take the candle. “I’ve said some hard things to you, Mr. Beaumaroy. I dare say I’ve sounded very self-righteous.” He raised his hand in protest, but she went on: “So I should like to say one different thing to you, since we’re to part after to-night. You’ve shown yourself a good friend, good and true as a man could have.”
“I loved my old man,” said Beaumaroy. ”

“ I didn’t at all know at first what a tidy lot he had. He hated the Radbolts; even after he ceased to know them as cousins, he remained very conscious of them always; they were enemies, spies, secret service people on his track—poor old boy! Well, why should they have him and his money? I didn’t see it. I don’t see it to this day.”
Mary was in Mr. Saffron’s armchair. Beaumaroy stood before the fire. She looked up at him.
“They seem to have more right than anybody else. ”

“ Once there was three thousand, almost to a sovereign. Even men trained to the work—bullion porters, as they call them at the Bank of England—reckon five bags of a thousand, canvas bags not much short of a foot long and six inches across, you know—they reckon five of them a full load—and wouldn’t care to go far with them either. ”