‘Just the same;—­taken from the same die,’ said Bagwax.

‘The little holes for dividing the stamps are bigger.’

‘It isn’t that.’

‘Then what the d——­ is it?’

‘There are letters at every corner,’ said Bagwax.

‘That’s of course,’ said Curlydown.

‘Can you read those letters?’ Curlydown owned that he never had quite understood what those letters meant.  ’Those two P’s in the two bottom corners tell me that that stamp wasn’t printed before ’74.  It was all explained to me not long ago.  Now the postmark is dated ‘73.’  There was an air of triumph about Bagwax as he said this which almost drove Curlydown back to hostility.  But he checked himself merely shaking his head, and continued to look at the stamp.  ‘What do you think of that?’ asked Bagwax.

‘You’d have to prove it.’

’Of course I should.  But the stamps are made here and are sent out to the colony.  I shall see Smithers at the stamp-office on Monday of course.’  Mr. Smithers was a gentleman concerned in the manufacture of stamps.  ’But I know my facts.  I am as well aware of the meaning of those letters as though I had made postage-stamps my own peculiar duty.  Now what ought I to do?’

‘You wouldn’t have to go, I suppose?’

‘Not a foot.’

‘And yet it ought to be found out how that date got there.’  And Curlydown put his finger upon the impression—­10th May, 1873.

’Not a doubt about it.  I should do a deal of good by going if they’d give me proper authority to overhaul everything in the office out there.  They had the letter stamped fraudulently;—­fraudulently, Mr. Curlydown!  Perhaps if I stayed at home to give evidence, they’d send you to Sydney to find all that out.’

There was a courtesy in this suggestion which induced Curlydown to ask his junior to come down and take pot-luck at Apricot Villa.  Bagwax was delighted, for his heart had been sore at the coolness which had grown up between him and the man under whose wing he had worked for so many years.  He had been devoted to Curlydown till growing ambition had taught him to think himself able to strike out a line for himself.  Mr. Curlydown had two daughters, of whom the younger, Jemima, had found much favour in the eyes of Bagwax.  But since the jealousy had sprung up between the two men he had never seen Jemima, nor tasted the fruits of Curlydown’s garden.  Mrs. Curlydown, who approved of Bagwax, had been angry, and Jemima herself had become sullen and unloving to her father.  On that very morning Mrs. Curlydown had declared that she hated quarrels like poison.  ‘So do I, mamma,’ said Jemima, breaking her silence emphatically.  ‘Not that Mr. Bagwax is anything to anybody.’

‘That does look like something,’ said Curlydown, whispering to his friend in the railway carriage.  They were sitting opposite to each other, with their knees together,—­and were of course discussing the envelope.