“There was no necessity for such a warning, Mr. Weasel, in my case, I do assure you,” answered Richard, earnestly.  “I have nothing to conceal from you with respect to the circumstances of my position:  they are unfortunate, and doubtless very suspicious; but I am as innocent of this disgraceful charge—­”

“Hush, hush! my dear Sir; this will never do.  It is mere waste of time, though it might have been much worse.  Good Heavens! suppose you had been guilty, and told me that! you would have placed me in the most embarrassing situation, as your professional adviser, it is possible for the human mind to conceive.  What I want to know is your story, so far as these two thousand pounds found in your possession are concerned.  Whether it is true or not, does not matter a button.  I want to know whether it seems true; whether it will seem true to a judge and jury.  You have thought the matter over, of course; you have gone through it in your own mind from beginning to end—­now please to go over it to me.”

The little man whipped out a note-book, leaned forward in his chair, and looked all eye and ear, like a terrier watching at a rat-hole.

After a moment’s pause, Richard stated his case pretty much as we are already acquainted with it; the little lawyer interrupting him now and then by a gesture, but never by a word, in order that he might set down a point or a memorandum.

“Very good,” said Mr. Weasel, when he had quite finished.  “That’s your story, is it?”

“It’s the truth, Sir.”

“Hush! my dear young Sir.  We shall have enough of that—­the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—­a fortnight hence.  What you and I have to consider are the probabilities.  Why did you go to Plymouth, more than any other place, to change these notes?”

“Because I had heard there was a Miners’ Bank there, and Trevethick had mentioned the notes of that company as being as good, in his opinion, as those of the Bank of England.  I thought it would be easier to get the Mining notes in exchange for those of the Bank of England, than others of the same bank.”

“The check which you showed this Trevethick was not, then, a bona fide piece of paper, eh?”

“It was not,” said Richard, casting down his eyes.

“Very good,” answered the lawyer, so cheerfully that you would have thought his client had cleared himself of the least suspicion upon that score, at all events.  “Now, where did you get it?”

“My mother sent me a blank check, at my request, and I filled it in.”

“That check is destroyed, you say—­you burned it, of course?”

“No; I tore it up, and threw it out of the window of the carriage.”

“The devil you did!” said Mr. Weasel, in perturbation.  “That is not the way to destroy checks.  Had your mother an account at the bank on which it was drawn?”

“Of course.” said Richard, simply.