“Well, I think I managed it pretty well.  By the by, that gold you showed them, was it really gold?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh! because I thought—­”

“No, sir, you did not.  A man of your ability knows I would not risk ten thousand pounds for want of a purchase I could not lose ten. shillings by.  Ore is not a fancy article.”

“Oh! ah! yes, very true; no, of course not.  One question more.  Where did the gold come from?”

“California.”

“But, I mean, how did you get it?”

“I bought it out of a shop window those two knowing ones pass twice every day of their lives.”

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“You pass it oftener than that, sir.  Excuse me, sir; I must catch the train.  But one word before I go.  My name must never be mentioned in this business.”

“Very well; it never shall transpire, upon my honor.”

Meadows felt pretty safe.  As he put on his greatcoat he thought to himself:  “When the story is blown and laughed over, this man’s vanity will keep my name out of it.  He won’t miss a chance of telling the world how clever he is.  My game is to pass for honest, not for clever, no, thank you.”

“Good-by, sir,” was his last word.  “It is you for hoodwinking them.”

“Ha! ha! ha!  Good-by, farmer"(in a patronizing tone).

Soon after this, Meadows was in a corner of a railway-carriage, twelve thousand four hundred and fifty pounds in his pocket, and the second part of his great complex scheme boiling and bubbling in his massive head.  There he sat silent as the grave, his hat drawn over his powerful brows that were knitted all the journey by one who never knitted them in vain.

He reached home at eight and sat down to his desk and wrote for more than half an hour.  Then he sealed up the paper, and when Crawley came he found him walking up and down the room.  At a silent gesture Crawley took a chair and sat quivering with curiosity.  Meadows walked in deep thought.

“You demanded my confidence.  It is a dangerous secret, for once you know it you must serve me with red-hot zeal, or be my enemy and be crushed out of life like a blind-worm, or an adder, Peter Crawley.”

“I know that, dear sir,” assented Peter, ruefully.

“First, how far have you guessed?”

“I guess Mr. Levi is somehow against us.”

“He is,” replied Meadows, carelessly.

“Then that is a bad job.  He will beat us.  He is as cunning as a fox.”

Meadows looked up contemptuously; but as he could not afford to let such a sneak as Crawley think him anything short of invincible, he said coolly, “He is, and I have measured cunning with a fox.”

“You have?  That must have been a tight match.”

“A fox used to take my chickens one hard winter; an old fox cautious and sly as the Jew you rate so high.  The men sat up with guns for him—­no; a keeper set traps in a triangle for him—­no.  He had the eye of a hawk, the ear of a hare, and his own nose.  He would have the chickens, and he would not get himself into trouble.  The women complained to me of the fox.  I turned a ferret loose into the rabbit-hutch, and in half a minute there was as nice a young rabbit dead as ever you saw.”