There May Be Danger by Ianthe Jerrold

bought it off me for his collection. I was not anxious to sell it,” said Gwyn Lupton grandly, “but since he wished to buy it I obliged him. Five pounds he gave me—it may have been worth more, I cannot tell.”
    â€œFive pounds! It must have been something unusual. Not many old silver coins are worth that.”
    â€œI made a mould in putty of the piece of money, to keep as a curiosity, and one day when you are passing my place at Pentrewer, I will show it you if you will please to step in. But the piece of money is at the Veault. If you are ever in that direction, call at the Veault, young lady, and ask Mr. Morrison to show you the piece of money. Say Gwyn Lupton sent you. Mr. Morrison is a very obliging gentleman, and if you likes old houses, young lady—and most London ladies does, I have noticed—you will like to see the Veault. It is a very ancient old timber house. They say as King Charles hid there when he was running away off to France one time.”
    Kate could not help smiling at poor King Charles, that peripatetic monarch, under the patronage of whose shade so many inns, old manors and oak trees flourish!
    â€œI have been working on the Veault for Mr. Hufton the builder, getting it ready for the London children that is coming there, so I knows what I am telling you about, young lady. There is some grand old panelled rooms there, if you likes panelled rooms, and most London ladies does, I has noticed. There is a spit, too, in the kitchen, and some of the ceilings has their beams and joists showing, and there is a front staircase that has carved newel-posts and a back staircase that is like a corkscrew,” said Gwyn Lupton, who was evidently a pretty good judge of the taste of lady fanciers of house property. He added: “And now there is four baths, no less, and lavatories galorum.”
    â€œWhen will the children be coming, Mr. Lupton, have you heard?” asked Mrs. Howells, shaking the cloves out of a large tin on to the scales.
    â€œPretty soon, I expect, Mrs. Howells. The young lady from the Abbey Farm was at the Veault the day before yesterday to fix up with Mrs. Morrison about supplying the milk for the children.” 
    â€œThat will be your Land Army friend, Miss Mayhew!”
    â€œOh, indeed, young lady, so the young lady from the Abbey Farm is a friend of yours?” said Gwyn Lupton with melodious interest. “Well, Llanhalo Abbey is an old ancient place, too, but there is not so much to see there as there is at the Veault, and what you see you has to pay sixpence for.” Mr. Lupton seemed firmly convinced that old houses were Kate’s chief interest in life. As a carpenter, reflected Kate, he probably had to listen to a good deal of feminine gush about oak beams and such objects. He pocketed the screw of cloves and picked two pennies out of his little black purse.
    â€œGideon Atkins isn’t popular, is he?” commented Kate, amused.
    The bard, planking down his two pennies, flashed his remote and haughty glance at her.
    â€œGood opinions cannot be bought with gold, it is true, but bad opinions is the reward of the miser,” he observed. “There is men in this world thinks so much of money they doesn’t know the value of anything, and Gideon Atkins is such a man. He is a man who would die to save a doctor’s bill, if it were not for the funeral expenses that would follow.”
    Kate wondered whether Aminta, who was a detached and somewhat unobservant girl, was aware that her employer’s funeral formed one of the more frequent, and more cheerful, topics of local conversation. Gwyn Lupton’s haughty and poetic features wore quite a rapt expression.
    â€œWell, Mrs. Howells, well, young lady, I must take my leave of you, for my wife is suffering great agonies, poor woman, and I must not be lingering on my way to her more than is reasonable. Do not forget, young lady, when you are at Llanhalo, seeing your friend,