Loe raamatut: «The Parson O' Dumford», lehekülg 14

Volume Two – Chapter Nine.
Lost

There was no newspaper in Dumford, only those which came from Ramford and Lindum, but news flew quite fast enough without, and by breakfast-time on the morning of the day following the events spoken of in the past chapter, it was known that Daisy Banks had not been home all night.

Joe Banks himself spread the news by going and making inquiries in all directions directly he was up.

For, on waking about half-past five, according to his regular custom, and jumping out of bed to dress and go into his garden, as he had no work, he found to his astonishment that his wife had not been to bed; and she now came to him, crying bitterly, to say that she had been sitting up all night waiting for Daisy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he roared.

“I wanted to screen her, Joe,” moaned Mrs Banks. “I thought you’d be so popped with the poor girl; and though I didn’t like her goings on, I didn’t want her to be scolded.”

“What time did she go out?” said Joe, trying to recall the past night.

“About eight, and I expected her back every minute after ten.”

“Here, give me my hat,” cried Joe; and he was off to the main street, where, in answer to inquiries, he found that Daisy had been seen in the High Street soon after eight.

“What’s wrong?” said Tom Podmore, coming out of his house.

“Daisy! hev you seen my Daisy?” said Joe, furiously.

“Yes, I see her go up the street last night at about eight,” said Tom, “as if going up the hill by the chalk pit.”

“Did you folly her?”

“No,” said Tom, sadly; “I never folly her now. But what’s it mean – isn’t she at home?”

“No,” said Joe, sharply. “She’s not been at home all night. Wheer can she be?”

“Better ask Master Dick Glaire,” said Tom, uttering a groan. “He can tell ye.”

“Howd thee tongue, thee silly fool,” cried Joe, angrily. “How should he know owt about where she is? Here, come along. I’ll soon show thee thou’rt wrong.”

He led the way to the Big House, where one of the maids was just opening the shutters; and, on being beckoned to, she came to the door.

“Where’s Master Richard?” said Joe.

“Fast asleep in bed,” said the girl.

“Art sure?” said Joe.

“Yes, certain,” said the girl.

“Was he out last night?”

“Yes,” said the girl; “but he came home early, and then went out for a bit; but he was in very soon, and sat up to let missus in, while I went to bed.”

“What time will he be up?” said Joe.

“Not before nine,” said the girl. “Shall I tell him you want him?”

“No,” said Joe. “I’ll come on again soon.”

Tom seemed surprised and troubled, for he had fully expected to find that Richard Glaire was from home.

“Thou’rt wrong, lad,” said Joe, drawing his breath through his teeth. “Some ill has fallen to the poor lass.”

“What’s up, Joe Banks?” said Harry, the big hammerman, straddling slowly up.

“Did’st see owt o’ my Daisy last night?” said Joe.

Harry pulled off his cap, and gave his head a rub before answering.

“Yes, I see her go up ta hill, ’bout eight it weer.”

“Did you see her come back?” asked Tom, eagerly.

“No, lad, no. I see Master Richard Glaire come along though,” said the big fellow, under the impression that that might act as a clue.

“Yes,” said Tom, bitterly. “I saw him, and again at about ten, talking to Sim Slee, and then the lads followed him up street, and he ran into the house.”

“Sim Slee!” said Joe, thinking. “We’ll ask him; but let’s go to the police.”

At the station no news could be heard, and as time went on, plenty of neighbours could be found to say that they had seen Daisy Banks go up the hill; and amongst these was the chattering old woman at the public-house. But no one had seen her return.

“Come along o’ me, lad,” said Joe Banks; and they strode up the hill, a heavy sense of dread gathering over each of the men, as they thought of the chalk pit, and the possibility of Daisy having fallen in, to lie there dead or dying, on the rough, hard blocks at the bottom.

The morning was bright and beautiful, and the sun made the dew-sprinkled strands and twigs glitter like gems; but to those who sought Daisy Banks, all seemed gloomy, and in spite of all his bitter feelings, Tom Podmore’s heart was terribly stirred within him, so that he uttered a wild cry when just at the top, and ran ahead to pick up something soaked and wet with the night dew.

“It’s her basket,” he cried.

Joe staggered, and seemed to turn sick; but recovering himself, he ran up to the younger man.

“Yes, it’s her basket,” he said, huskily. “Tom, lad, look over the rail – I – I can’t.”

Joe Banks sank down on his knees, and covered his face with his rough hands, while Tom shuddered, and then calling up his fortitude, looked over the rail down the steep-sided pit, and uttered a cry as he drew back, ran down the lane to the end of the slope, leaped the gate across the track where the carts descended, and running over the scattered lumps of chalk, made his way down into the deepest part of the pit, where to him it had seemed that Daisy was lying at the bottom of the wall of grey rock.

But, no, it was only her dew-soaked shawl; and though he looked in all directions, he found nothing else but a glove.

“She must have been here,” he said to himself, and in an agitated way he clambered about over the blocks of chalk, and the débris fallen from above; but nothing was visible, and he stood at last looking round.

There was the face of the chalk before him, and he was shut in by it right and left, the walls gradually falling lower as he turned back and passed the extinct lime-kiln, till they sloped down to the level of the track – the pit having been gradually dug in the side of the hill, every load taken out cutting farther into the side, and making the principal wall of chalk more precipitous and high.

Still, not satisfied, Tom Podmore ran back and hunted in all directions; but as far as he could see nothing was visible, and he turned once more to find the father coming to join him, trembling, and looking ashy pale.

“Hev you found her, Tom? hev you found her?” he gasped, and on Tom shaking his head, he caught him by the arm. “Yes,” he exclaimed, in a piteous voice, “that’s her shawl. Where is she gone?”

“I heven’t found her,” said the young man, hoarsely. “She’s not there.”

“Not there? Not fallen in? Thank God, thank God! But are ye sure, lad? are ye sure?”

“I’ve hunted the place all over,” said Tom, sadly; and then Joe Banks clutched his arm tightly, and they went straight back to the town, where Joe stopped at the Big House and was admitted, Tom Podmore following.

“Wheer’s the master?” said Joe, hastily.

“Just come down and gone out,” said the girl. “Shall I tell missus?”

“Yes,” said Joe. “No;” and then to himself, “I can’t meet her now.”

He hurried out and down the street, head after head being thrust out, while the people outside their doors gave him looks of condolence, and shook their heads by way of sympathy.

“Tom, lad,” said Joe, “I can’t kinder understand this; it’s amairzin. But look here, lad; go and ask the boys to come and help you, and mebbe you’ll get a hundred of ’em ready to search for my bairn. Get the police, too. I’m off to find the young master.”

Tom started off on his recruiting expedition, while Daisy’s father hurried down the street to try and find Richard Glaire, though not with the most remote idea of coupling him with the girl’s disappearance.

He had nearly reached the vicarage, and was passing one of the side lanes, when he heard voices in altercation, and on glancing round it was to see the man he sought holding Sim Slee by the throat, and shaking him violently.

“You treacherous hound!” he was saying, “and after the way I’ve trusted you.”

“Joe Banks, here, Joe Banks, help!” yelled Sim; but before Daisy’s father could reach the couple, Richard Glaire threw the democrat off, so that he staggered against the wall.

“You dog!” cried Richard, grinding his teeth.

“All right,” whimpered Sim. “All right, Mr Richard Glaire, Esquire. I’ve stood up for you enew lately; now tak’ care of yoursen.”

“I’ll break your head, you scoundrel, if you don’t go,” roared Richard.

Sim rubbed the dust from his person and shook himself straight, looking side-wise the while at his assailant before sidling off, shaking his fist; and then, when about fifty yards away, turning round and shouting:

“I’ll be even with you for this, Dick Glaire.”

Richard made a rush at him, when Sim took to his heels and ran, while the young man turned back to where Joe Banks stood holding poor Daisy’s basket and shawl.

“Master Dick,” said the old man sternly, “I want to ask thee a question, and I want yow, as your father’s son, to give me a straightforward answer.”

“But what does this all mean, Joe? what’s this about Daisy?”

“Answer my question,” said the old man, sternly; and then he paused for a moment, as he fixed his clear eyes on the young man’s shifty face, before saying hoarsely:

“Were you out walking wi’ my lass, Daisy, last night?”

“No,” said Richard, firmly; “certainly not.”

“And thee didn’t see her last night at all?”

“Yes, oh yes,” said Richard, eagerly. “I did see her, and said, ‘How d’ye do.’”

“Wheer?” said Joe Banks, without moving a muscle.

“Up by the chalk pit, at the top of the hill. I’d been having a round.”

“What time?” said Joe, shortly.

“Well, let me see,” said Richard, hesitating. “I came straight down home, and it was about half-past eight when I got in.”

Joe stood thinking: the servant-girl had said that her master had come in early.

“And you didn’t see my bairn after?” said Joe, gazing full in the young man’s eyes.

“Certainly not,” said Richard.

“Will yow swear it?” said Joe.

Richard hesitated for a moment, and then, with a half-laugh, said:

“Oh, yes, if you like.”

“Perhaps I shall like, my lad; but I don’t ask you to sweer now. You’ve heerd, I s’pose?”

“I’ve heard something, Joe, but can’t quite make it out,” said the young man.

“It’s easy,” said Joe, hoarsely. “My poor bairn came up town last night, and she hasn’t been back. We foun’ these here up by the chalk pit.”

“But she hadn’t fallen in?”

“No, my lad, no,” said the old man, quietly, for he was thinking deeply. “But thankye, thankye. They wanted to make me believe as you meant harm to the lass – all on ’em; but I knew you, lad, well, as your poor owd father’s son.”

“Mr Banks!”

“Aw raight, my lad, aw raight. I never thowt it of you, never; but the tongues would wag; and I said if thee loved the bairn thee should’st hev her. You do her harm! Not you, lad; you cared too much for her. But harm’s come to her some way. Let’s find her.”

“But how could they say such things of me?” said Richard, with virtuous indignation shining out of his eyes.

“Oh, they’re a chithering lot,” exclaimed Joe. “They’d seen thee talk to the bairn, or mebbe seen thee heving a walk wi’ her, and that weer enew to set their tongues clacking. But we must be going, mun, for we’re losing time; and if any one’s done wrong by my bairn – ”

Richard shrank away, startled at the lurid flash from the old man’s eyes, as setting his teeth, and clenching his massive fist, he shook it at vacancy, and then, without another word, strode on, accompanied by Richard, who was trembling now like a leaf.

“Let me go in here for a moment or two,” said Richard, as they came abreast of the House; and as the door was thrown open, it was to show Mrs Glaire and Eve both standing dressed in the hall.

“Oh, Mr Banks,” exclaimed the latter, running to the old foreman, “this is very dreadful,” and she caught one of his hands in hers.

“Thanky’e, dear bairn, thanky’e,” he said, smiling upon her with quivering lip.

“But I saw her last night,” cried Eve.

“Ay? What time, miss, what time?” said Joe, eagerly.

“About eight,” said Eve, quickly. “She said, I think, that she was going to meet Richard.”

“She said that?” said the old man, starting, while Richard turned pale.

“No, I remember,” said Eve, piteously; “I told her she was going to meet him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “You were jealous of the poor bairn.”

Eve started back, blushing crimson.

“But are you sure she has not been home, Joe Banks?” said Mrs Glaire, looking at him wistfully.

“Sure, ay, quite sure,” said Joe, sternly. “Here is the poor bairn’s shawl, and her basket too. I’ll leave ’em here, if you’ll let me.”

He laid them down in the hall, and stepped out to where there was quite a crowd of workmen now, waiting to help in the search; but as they caught sight of Richard Glaire, who now came forward, there was a savage groan.

“Ask him where he’s put thee bairn, Joe Banks; he knows,” cried a shrill voice, that of some woman; and another groan arose, making Richard draw back shivering.

“Look at the white-faced coward,” shouted a man. “Ask him, Joe Banks, ask him.”

“Nay, nay, lads,” said the foreman, sternly. “Ye’re aw wrong. I hev asked him, and he’s told me. He knows nowt about the poor bairn.”

A murmur arose at this, but Joe Banks turned round to where Richard stood.

“You come along o’ me, Master Richard, and no one ’ll lay a finger on thee whiles thou’rt by my side. He was at home aw night, lads, and it’s not him as would do her harm.”

The little crowd seemed only half satisfied; but they gave place as, making an effort, the young man stepped out, and then in a purposeless way the search was about to begin, when there was a cheer given, for the vicar came hurrying up the street.

He looked hot and flushed, and his eyes met those of Richard Glaire so sternly that, for the moment, the young man blushed, but he recovered himself directly, to give an insolent stare in return.

“Mr Banks,” exclaimed the vicar, “this is grievous news indeed;” and ignoring the foreman’s half-distant manner, he shook his hand warmly.

“Thanky, parson,” said Joe, hoarsely.

“You are about to make a general search, of course,” he said; “but where are the police?”

“One’s gone across to station, and the other’s up at the chalk pit,” said a voice.

“First of all,” said the vicar, “did any one here see Daisy Banks after she went up the road?”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Richard said firmly:

“I saw her for a few moments up by the pit.”

“And not after?” said the vicar, fixing his eyes on the young man.

“I object to this cross-examination,” said Richard, hotly. “This is not a magistrate.”

“Parson asked thee a plain question, lad; give him a plain answer,” said Joe, quietly. “Thou’st nowt to fear.”

“No, then,” said Richard, loudly. “I was at home.”

“Mr Banks, then, you had better take twenty men; you go with these twenty, Podmore; and – ”

He hesitated a moment, when Joe Banks said:

“Master Richard will take another twenty.”

“And another score will perhaps go with me,” said the vicar. “Then we’ll each take one road; and mind, my men, every ditch, copse, and pond must be well searched; and, above all, mind and ask at every cottage on the road, who has passed, and what carts or carriages have gone along since last night.”

The parties were soon told off, when the vicar exclaimed:

“But stop! There were two strangers here yesterday.”

“Yes,” chorused several. “Two ill-looking chaps from one of the big towns.”

“Ay,” cried big Harry; “and I sin ’em go up towards the chalk pit.”

“So did I,” said another.

There was silence for a moment or two, and Tom Podmore seemed to feel the place go round, but he roused himself directly as he heard the vicar’s clear ringing voice:

“Then if some treacherous, unmanly scoundrel has not carried off, or persuaded this poor girl to leave father, mother, and home, for his own bad ends, we have found the clue. But mind this, my lads, we are going to run down those two men, but no violence. Let’s take them, but we must prove that they have been guilty.”

“Aw raight, parson;” and the whole party were for a rush up the road towards the chalk pit; but the vicar kept them to their separate tasks; and, glancing upwards, he caught a glimpse of two pale faces at the Big House, and the faces were those of Eve Pelly and Mrs Glaire.

Then each party started, and the search began.

Volume Two – Chapter Ten.
A Fruitless Search

The chalk pit naturally formed the great attraction, and on reaching it, the spots were pointed out where basket and shawl were found; but though a careful search was made by a portion of the force, nothing was for some time found to account for the disappearance.

The party had, however, divided here, and a portion of them, under Big Harry, had hastened along the road toward the Four Alls, the name of the little public-house where it was expected to hear some tidings of the men who had been seen in the town, and who must have passed, even if they were guiltless of wrong. The vicar, however, chose to remain behind, with about ten of his party, and together they began to make a more careful search about the pit – the first investigation being of the low post-and-rail fence which ran along the edge, to see if it was perfect in every part.

Yes, there was no doubt of it; not a rail was broken, or post bent out of the perpendicular, as would probably have been the case had any one fallen against it or been pushed over. Not even a piece of the shallow turf growing on the very brink of the pit was disordered, and the vicar was about to give up that part of the search, when he made a leap forward, and took from a rough splintered portion of the divided fir-pole which formed the rail a tiny scrap of red worsted, such as might very well have been torn from Daisy’s shawl.

“I think we’re on the right track, my lads,” said the vicar. “Now let’s divide, and we’ll search the coppice here, along the edge of the pit.”

The men went eagerly to work, and searched foot by foot the little thin sprinkling of fir trees and gorse that hung upon the edge of the declivity, but without avail – there was not a spot that could have sheltered a human form that was not scanned, and the divided party met at last upon the low ground at the slope of the hill, where the cart track cut its way in, and the lime-kiln stood half-way into the pit.

The vicar paused for a moment by the kiln, and peered in. It was not burning, and in a few minutes he was able to satisfy himself that no one had been in there, and with a shudder he turned away, spreading his men so that step by step they examined the rough white and gray blocks that had been thrown aside or had fallen. Some were fresh and of the purest white, with here and there delicate traces of the pectens and cardiums of a former shelly world; others were hoary and grey, and covered with a frosty lichen; while others, again, were earth-stained and brown.

In accordance with their leader’s instructions, each block was eagerly examined, the vicar’s idea being that it was possible for a cruel murder to have taken place, and for the token of the hideous crime to have been hidden, by laying it in some depression, and piling up the pieces of chalk, of which ample lay ready, for hiding a hundred such crimes.

But, no; there were footmarks here and there, and traces of the edges of the blocks having been chipped by heavy boots; but no spot could be found where they could satisfy themselves that they had been removed.

By this time some forty more sturdy workmen had come up; the event, in the midst of their enforced idleness from the works, being hailed as an excitement; and any amount of muscle was ready to help if directed.

The long search was, however, in vain; and their leader was pondering as to what he should do next, when a rough voice shouted:

“See here, lads. We’ll do ony mander o’ thing to find Joe Banks’s bairn. Come on! let’s hurl ivery bit o’ calk out o’ the pit.”

There was a shout at this, and the men were about to put their project in execution, when the vicar held up his hand.

“It’s waste of strength, my lads,” he said. “I am fully convinced that none of these blocks have been moved. Better search the lanes along the road.”

“Aw raight, parson,” was the cry; and the men left the pit to proceed along the road, the vicar on in front, so as to reach The Four Alls.

Before they had gone far they encountered the rest of their party, returning without further success than that of making the announcement that the men they sought had called there about nine, and had then gone on, being taken up for a lift by a man with a cart.

“What man, and what cart?” said one of the police constables, who had now come up.

The men did not know, and this being an important point, the whole party now hastened on to the little roadside inn – a shabby, dilapidated place, whose shed at the side, which represented the stabling, was falling away from the house, and whose premises generally seemed to be arranged by the owner as places for storing rubbish, dirt, and green scummed pools of water. There was a cart with one wheel, and a mangy horse with one eye, and apparently a ragged hen with one leg, but she put down another, made a low-spirited remark evidently relating to stolen eggs, and went off pecking here and there in a disconsolate manner, as if her search for food were one of the most hopeless pursuits under the sun. There was a garden, roughly fenced in, by the side of the house; but its crop consisted of last year’s gray cabbage-stumps; while, but for the sign over the door, nearly defaced, but having visible the words “wines and spirituous,” the place could hardly have been taken for a place of refreshment, even though the occupant of this attractive spot stood at the door, showing the potency of the said “wines and spirituous” liquors in his reddened and blotched face, as he leaned against the door-post, smoking a long clay pipe, and staring lazily at the party who now came up.

“Can you give us any information about the two men who came here last night?” said the vicar.

“Say?” said the man, staring.

“Gentleman wants to know wheer them chaps is gone,” said the constable.

“How should I know?” said the man, surlily. “Californy or Roosalum, for owt I know.”

“No nonsense, Brumby,” said the constable. “You’d best speak out. Who wheer they?”

“Friends o’ mine,” said the man, taking his pipe out of his mouth for a moment, to relieve himself of a tremendous volume of smoke.

“What were their names?”

“How should I know? They come here, and has a bit o’ rafrashment, and they goes again. What do I keer, so long as they wares their money.”

“Who had they got wi’ ’em?”

“Nobbut their own sens.”

“But I mean when they comed.”

“Look ye here, I hadn’t going to answer all your queshtons.”

“Well, look here; had they any one wi’ ’em when they went away?”

“Nobbat theer own sens,” said the man, sulkily.

“Well, who gave them a lift?”

“Don’t know, on’y as it weer a man in a cart.”

“But you must ha’ seen his name.”

“No, I musn’t if it wern’t painted on,” bawled the man. “What d’yer come wherretin’ me for about it? I don’t ask my customers who comes in for a gill o’ ale wheer they come from, nor wheer they’re going.”

“Had they a young girl with them?” said the vicar, who was getting out of patience.

“Not as I know on,” said the man. “One had nobbut a whip.”

There was evidently nothing to be got out of him, so the party returned to Dumford, the policeman undertaking to communicate by telegraph with the towns through which the men would be likely to pass, as this would be the surest and quickest way.

As the day wore on, the other parties returned to assemble and discuss the matter; though there was little to discuss, for Joe Banks had returned without a trace being found of his child, and the same ill fortune had attended Podmore and Richard Glaire.

The latter, soon as he reached home, however, sought Mrs Glaire, who was lying down, apparently ill at ease, with Eve in attendance upon her, the young girl rising with a shiver as her cousin entered the room, and leaving without encountering his eyes.

“Where is Daisy Banks, mother?” said Richard, hoarsely, as soon as they were alone. “I’ve kept up this foolery of searching all day, to quiet these people, and now I insist upon knowing where she is.”

“I should ask you that,” said Mrs Glaire, angrily; “but if I did I should not learn the truth. Where have you taken her?”

“Taken her?” said Richard, savagely. “Where should I take her? You know I was at home all last night.”

“Where you had planned to take her,” said Mrs Glaire, coldly.

“I planned!” cried Richard. “Why, I left her with you. Plans, indeed!”

“Daisy Banks was not with me ten minutes,” said Mrs Glaire, quietly. “I said plans, because – ”

“Because what?” cried Richard. “Do you wish me to tell you?”

“Yes, if you have anything to tell.”

“Because you paid that chattering ass, Slee, to carry letters to and fro, between you and Daisy, after you had given me your word of honour that you would see her no more. Because you then, after gradually bringing the silly girl over to your purposes, paid or bribed, which you will, Simeon Slee, the man who has been one of the projectors of this wretched strike, to act as your pander to take this girl off to London, to await your coming. It is your doing; so now you had better seek her.”

“How did you know all this?”

“How did I know?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously. “How are such things known? You leaned upon a bruised reed, and it broke and entered your hand.”

“Did Sim Slee tell you all this, then?” said Richard, stamping with fury.

“Yes; and he would have told me long ago, had I given him what the knave wants – money.”

“A treacherous scoundrel!” cried Richard; “trusting him as I did.”

“You knew him to be a treacherous, prating scoundrel, so why did you trust him?”

“Because I was a fool,” roared the young man, biting his nails with rage.

“Exactly; because you were a fool, and because no honest man would help you to be guilty of the great sin you meant to commit, of stealing the daughter of the man who had been your father’s best friend – the man who helped him to make his fortune. Scoundrels are necessary to do scoundrels’ work.”

“But he cheated me,” cried Richard; “he took my money, and he has not performed his promise.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs Glaire. “But when did you know this?” cried Richard.

“You own to it, then?” cried Mrs Glaire, gazing sharply at him.

“Never mind whether I own it or not. A scoundrel! I’ll serve him out for this.”

“I have known it only a few hours,” said Mrs Glaire, sinking back on her couch, and watching the young man, as he stamped up and down the room.

“But he has thrown me over,” cried Richard. “I don’t know where the girl is.”

“Who has thrown you over?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.

“You needn’t believe me without you like,” said Richard; “but I am speaking the truth now. Sim Slee was to take her across to Lupsthorpe station, and go with her to town.”

“Yes.”

“And stay with her till I came, after the heat of the row was over; for no one would have missed him.”

“Well?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.

“Well, he has thrown me over,” said Richard. “I met him this morning, and found he had not been.”

“What did he say?” said Mrs Glaire.

“Swore he couldn’t find her.”

“Then the wolf set the fox to carry off the lamb, and now the fox says he has not seen the prey,” said Mrs Glaire, smiling.

“Damn your riddles and fables!” cried Richard, who was beside himself with rage. “I tell you he has sold me.”

“What you might have expected,” said his mother.

“The scoundrel has hidden her somewhere,” cried Richard; “and it’s his plan to get more money out of me.”

“What you might have expected,” said Mrs Glaire, again. “You had better set the police to watch him and find him out.”

“Not while I can do it better myself,” said the young man, with a cunning grin upon his countenance. “You have both been very clever, I dare say you think; and if the truth were known, you have been setting Sim Slee to get her away, so as to marry me to your pet; but you won’t succeed.”

“You are wrong, Richard; I would not trust Sim Slee with the value of a penny. I gave him ten pounds for his information, and I have not seen him since. You had better employ the police.”

“Curse the police!” cried Richard, looking hard at his mother’s face, and feeling that she was telling him the truth; “what good are they? I might have been killed before they would have interfered. But I’ve not done with Master Sim Slee yet.”

“Then you will not employ the police?”

“No,” said Richard, sharply; “the matter’s tangled enough as it is; but he’s got the wrong man to deal with, has Sim Slee, if he thinks he has cheated me so easily.”

“Better leave him alone,” said Mrs Glaire, wearily. “You have enough to attend to with your own affairs.”

“This is my affair,” cried Richard.

“Bombast and sound,” said his mother. “I suppose you and Slee are in collusion, and this is done to blind me, and the rest of the town. But there, you must follow your own course.”

“I mean to,” said Richard; and the breach between him and his mother seemed to be getting wider than ever.