III.

I'm sure you might have thought all his rick-yards were on fire by the

way old Jacobson came bursting in. It was Saturday morning, and we were

at breakfast at Dyke Manor. He had run every step of the way from Elm

Farm, two miles nearly, not having patience to wait for his gig, and

came in all excitement, the _Worcester Herald_ in his hand. The Squire

started from his chair; Mrs. Todhetley, then in the act of pouring out

a cup of coffee, let it flow over on to the tablecloth.

"What on earth's amiss, Jacobson?" cried the Squire.

"Ay, what's amiss," stuttered Jacobson in answer; "_this_ is amiss,"

holding out the newspaper. "I'll prosecute the editor as sure as I'm a

living man. It is a conspiracy got up to sell it; a concocted lie. It

can't be anything else, you know, Todhetley. And I want you to go off

with me to Worcester. The gig's following me."

When we had somewhat collected our senses, and could look at the

newspaper, there was the account as large as life. Samson Reginald Dene

had been had up before the magistrates on Thursday morning on a charge

of stealing a small box of carved ebony, containing sixty guineas in

gold, from the dwelling house of Lawyer Cockermuth; and he was to be

brought up again that day, Saturday, for examination.

"A pretty thing this is to see, when a man opens his weekly newspaper

at his breakfast-table!" gasped Jacobson, flicking the report with his

angry finger. "I'll have the law of them--accusing _my_ nephew of such

a thing as that! You'll go with me, Squire!"

"Go! of course I'll go!" returned the Squire, in his hot partisanship.

"We were going to Worcester, any way; I've things to do there. Poor Sam!

Hanging would be too good for the printers of that newspaper, Jacobson."

Mr. Jacobson's gig was heard driving up to the gate at railroad speed;

and soon our own carriage was ready. Old Jacobson sat with the Squire, I

behind with Giles; the other groom, Blossom, drove Tod in the gig; and

away we went in the blustering March wind. Many people, farmers and

others, were on the road, riding or driving to Worcester market.

Well, we found it was true. And not the mistake of the newspapers: they

had but reported what passed before the magistrates at the town hall.

The first person we saw was Miss Cockermuth. She was in a fine way, not

knowing what to think or believe, and sat in the parlour in that soft

green gown of twilled silk (that might have been a relic of the silk

made in the time of the Queen of Sheba), her cap and front all awry.

Rumour said old Jacobson had been a sweetheart of hers in their young

days; but I'm sure I don't know. Any way they were very friendly with

one another, and she sometimes called him "Frederick." He sat down by

her on the horse-hair sofa, and we took chairs.

She recounted the circumstances (ramblingly) from beginning to end. Not

that the end had come yet by a long way. And--there it was, she wound

up, when the narrative was over: the box had disappeared, just for all

the world as mysteriously as it disappeared in the days gone by.

Mr. Jacobson had listened patiently. He was a fine, upright man, with

a healthy colour and bright dark eyes. He wore a blue frock-coat to-day

with metal buttons, and top-boots. As yet he did not see how they had

got up grounds for accusing Sam, and he said so.

"To be sure," cried the Squire. "How's that, Miss Betty?"

"Why, it's this way," said Miss Betty--"that nobody was here in the

parlour but Sam when the box vanished. It is my brother Charles who has

done it all; he is so passionate, you know. John has properly quarrelled

with him for it."

"It is not possible, you know, Miss Betty, that Sam Dene could have done

it," struck in Tod, who was boiling over with rage at the whole thing.

"Some thief must have stolen in at the street-door when Sam had left the

room."

"Well, no, that could hardly have been, seeing that Charles never left

the street-door after that," returned Miss Betty, mildly. "It appears to

be a certain fact that not a soul entered the room after the young man

left it. And there lies the puzzle of it."

Putting it to be as Miss Betty put it--and I may as well say here that

nothing turned up, then or later, to change the opinion--it looked

rather suspicious for Sam Dene. I think the Squire saw it.

"I suppose you are sure the box was on the table when you left the room,

Miss Betty?" said he.

"Why, of course I am sure, Squire," she answered. "It was the last thing

my eyes fell on; for, as I went through the door, I glanced back to see

that I had left the table tidy. Susan can bear witness to that. Dutton,

the police-sergeant, thinks some demon of mischief must be in that

box--meaning the deuce, you know. Upon my word it looks like it."

Susan came in with some glasses and ale as Miss Betty spoke, and

confirmed the testimony--which did not need confirmation. As she closed

the parlour-door, she said, after her mistress had passed out, she

noticed the box standing on the table.

"Is Sam here to-day--in the office?" asked Mr. Jacobson.

"Oh, my goodness, no," cried Miss Betty in a fluster. "Why, Frederick,

he has not been here since Thursday, when they had him up at the

Guildhall. He couldn't well come while the charge is hanging over him."

"Then I think we had better go out to find Sam, and hear what he has to

say," observed Mr. Jacobson, drinking up his glass of ale.

"Yes, do," said Miss Betty. "Tell poor Sam I'm as sorry as I can

be--pestered almost out of my mind over it. And as to their having found

one of the guineas in his pocket, please just mention to him that I say

it might have slipped in accidentally."

"One of the guineas found in Sam's pocket!" exclaimed Mr. Jacobson,

taken aback.

"Well, I hear so," responded Miss Betty. "The police searched him, you

see."

As the Squire and Mr. Jacobson went out, Mr. Cockermuth was coming in.

They all turned into the office together, while we made a rush to Sam

Dene's lodgings in Edgar Street: as much of a rush, at least, as the

Saturday's streets would let us make. Sam was out, the young servant

said when we got there, and while parleying with her Mrs. Parslet opened

her sitting-room door.

"I do not suppose Mr. Dene will be long," she said. "He has to appear

at the town hall this morning, and I think it likely he will come home

first. Will you walk in and wait?"

She handed us into her parlour, where she had been busy, marking sheets

and pillow-cases and towels with "prepared" ink; the table was covered

with them. Tod began telling her that Mr. Jacobson was at Worcester, and

went on to say what a shame it was that Sam Dene should be accused of

this thing.

"We consider it so," said Mrs. Parslet; who was a capable,

pleasant-speaking woman, tall and slender. "My husband says it has

upset Mr. Cockermuth more than anything that has occurred for years

past. He tells his brother that he should have had it investigated

privately, not have given Mr. Dene into custody."

"Then why did he let him do it, Mrs. Parslet?"

She looked at Tod, as if surprised at the question. "Mr. Cockermuth

knew nothing of it; you may be sure of that. Captain Cockermuth had

the young man at the Guildhall and was preferring the charge, before

Mr. Cockermuth heard a word of what was agate. Certainly that is a

most mysterious box! It seems fated to give trouble."

At this moment the door opened, and a young lady came into the

parlour. It was Maria. What a nice face she had!--what sweet thoughtful

eyes!--what gentle manners! Sam's friends in the town were accusing him

of being in love with her--and small blame to him.

But Sam did not appear to be coming home, and time was getting on. Tod

decided not to wait longer, and said good-morning.

Flying back along High Street, we caught sight of the tray of Dublin

buns, just put fresh on the counter in Rousse's shop, and made as good a

feast as time allowed. Some people called them Doubling buns (from their

shape, I take it), and I don't know to this day which was right.

Away with fleet foot again, past the bustle round the town hall, and

market house, till we came to the next confectioner's and saw the

apple-tarts. Perhaps somebody remembers yet how delicious those

apple-tarts were. Bounding in, we began upon them.

While the feast was in progress, Sam Dene went by, walking very fast.

We dashed out to catch him. Good Mrs. Mountford chanced to be in the

shop and knew us, or they might have thought we were decamping without

payment.

Sam Dene, in answer to Tod's hasty questions, went into a passion;

swearing at the world in general, and Captain Cockermuth in particular,

as freely as though the justices, then taking their places in the

Guildhall, were not as good as within earshot.

"It is a fearful shame, Todhetley!--to bring such a charge against me,

and to lug me up to the criminal bar like a felon. Worse than all, to

let it go forth to the town and county in to-day's glaring newspapers

that I, Sam Dene, am a common thief!"

"Of course it is a fearful shame, Sam--it's infamous, and all your

friends know it is," cried Tod, with eager sympathy. "My father wishes

he could hang the printers. I say, what do you think has become of the

box?"

"Become of it!--why, that blundering Charles Cockermuth has got it. He

was off his head with excitement at its being found. He must have come

into the room and put it somewhere and forgotten it: or else he put it

into his pocket and got robbed of it in the street. That's what I think.

Quite off his head, I give you my word."

"And what fable is it the wretches have got up about finding one of the

guineas in your pocket, Sam?"

"Oh, bother that! It was my own guinea. I swear it--there! I can't stay

now," went on Sam, striding off down High Street. "I am due at the town

hall this minute; only out on bail. You'll come with me."

"You go in and pay for the tarts, Johnny," called back Tod, as he put

his arm within Sam Dene's. I looked in, pitched a shilling on the

counter, said I didn't know how many we had eaten; perhaps ten; and

that I couldn't wait for change.

Crushing my way amidst the market women and their baskets in the

Guildhall yard, I came upon Austin Chance. His father held some post

connected with the law, as administered there, and Austin said he would

get me in.

"Can it be true that the police found one of the guineas about him?" I

asked.

Chance pulled a long face. "It's true they found one when they searched

him----"

"What right had they to search him?"

"Well, I don't know," said Austin, laughing a little; "they did it. To

see perhaps whether all the guineas were about him. And I am afraid,

Johnny Ludlow, that the finding of that guinea will make it rather hard

for Sam. It is said that Maria Parslet can prove the guinea was Sam's

own, and that my father has had a summons served on her to appear here

to-day. He has taken Sam's case in hand; but he is closer than wax, and

tells me nothing."

"You don't think he can have stolen the box, Chance?"

"I don't. I shouldn't think him capable of anything so mean; let alone

the danger of it. Not but that there are circumstances in the case that

tell uncommonly strong against him. And where the deuce the box can have

got to, otherwise, is more than mortal man can guess at. Come along."