"Well, you know I sent him to the asylum," responded Mr. Belcher.

"I know you did--yes, I know you did; and you tried to get him well
enough to sign a paper, which the doctor never would let him sign, and
which wouldn't have been worth a straw if he had signed it.
The-idea-of-getting-a-crazy-man-to-sign-a-paper!"

"Well, but I wanted some security for the money I had advanced," said
Mr. Belcher.

"No; you wanted legal possession of a property which would have made him
rich; that's what it was, and you didn't get it, and you never will get
it. He can't be cured, and he's been sent back, and is up at Tom
Buffum's now, and I've seen him to-day."

Miss Butterworth expected that this intelligence would stun Mr. Belcher,
but it did not.

The gratification of the man with the news was unmistakable. Paul
Benedict had no relatives or friends that he knew of. All his dealings
with him had been without witnesses. The only person living besides
Robert Belcher, who knew exactly what had passed between his victim and
himself, was hopelessly insane. The difference, to him, between
obtaining possession of a valuable invention of a sane or an insane man,
was the difference between paying money and paying none. In what way,
and with what profit, Mr. Belcher was availing himself of Paul
Benedict's last invention, no one in Sevenoaks knew; but all the town
knew that he was getting rich, apparently much faster than he ever was
before, and that, in a distant town, there was a manufactory of what was
known as "The Belcher Rifle."