Thursday morning, the seventeenth of June--for we have to go back to
that day. High Street was basking in the rays of the hot sun; foot
passengers, meeting each other on the scorching pavement, lifted their
hats for a moment's air, and said what a day it was going to be. The
clean, bright shops faced each other from opposite sides. None of their
wares looked more attractive than those displayed in the two windows of
the silversmith.
Mr. Stephenson--a trustworthy, civil little man of thirty, with a plain
face and sandy hair that stood upright on his head--was keeping guard
over his master's goods, some of them being very valuable. The shop was
a long one and he was far down in it, behind the left-hand counter.
Before him lay a tray of small articles of jewellery, some of which he
was touching up with a piece of wash-leather. He did not expect to be
busy that day; the previous day, Wednesday, had been a busy one, so many
country people came into town for the market.
While thus engaged a gentleman, young, good looking, and well dressed,
entered the shop. Mr. Stephenson went forward.
"I have called for Mrs. Todhetley's brooch," said the stranger. "Is it
ready?"
"What brooch, sir?" returned Stephenson.
"The one she left with you to be mended."
The shopman felt a little puzzled. He said he did not remember that any
brooch had been left by that lady to be mended.
"Mrs. Todhetley of Crabb Cot," explained the applicant, perhaps thinking
the man was at fault that way.
"Oh, yes, sir, I know who you mean; I know Mrs. Todhetley. But she has
not left any brooch here."
"Yes, she has; she left it to be mended. I was to call to-day and ask
for it."
Stephenson turned to reach the book in which articles left to be mended
were entered, with their owners' names. Perhaps his master might have
taken in the brooch and omitted to tell him. But no such entry was
recorded in it.
"I am afraid it is a mistake, sir," he said. "Had Mrs. Todhetley left a
brooch, or anything else, for repair, it would be entered here. She may
have taken it to some other shop."
"No, no; it is yours I was to call at. She bought it here a few
months ago," added the young man. "She came in to ask you about the
polishing-up of an old silver cake-basket, and you showed her the
brooches, some you had just had down from London, and she bought one of
them and gave four guineas for it."
Stephenson remembered the transaction perfectly. He had stood by while
his principal showed and sold the brooch to Mrs. Todhetley. Four only of
these brooches had been sent to them on approval by their London agent,
they were something quite new. Mrs. Todhetley admired them greatly;
said she wanted to make a wedding present to a young lady about to be
married, but had not meant to give as much as four guineas. However, the
beauty of the brooch tempted her; she bought it, and took it home.
Stephenson's silence, while he was recalling this to his memory, caused
the gentleman to think his word was doubted, and he entered into further
particulars.
"It was last March, I think," he said. "The brooch is a rather large
one; a white cornelian stone, or something of that sort, with a raised
spray of flowers upon it, pink and gold; the whole surrounded by a
border of gold filagree work. I never saw a nicer brooch."
"Yes, yes, sir, it was just as you say; I recollect it all quite well.
Mrs. Todhetley bought it to give away as a wedding present."
"And the wedding never came off," said the young man, with ease. "Before
she had time to despatch the brooch, news came to her of the
rupture.--So she had to keep it herself: and the best thing too, the
Squire said. Well, it is that brooch I have come for."
"But I assure you it has not been left with us, Mr. Todhetley," said
Stephenson, presuming he was speaking to the Squire's son.
"The little pink flower got broken off last week as Mrs. Todhetley was
undoing her shawl; she brought it in at once to be mended," persisted
the young man.
"But not here indeed, sir," reiterated Stephenson. "I'm sorry to hear it
is broken."
"She wouldn't take it anywhere but to the place it was bought at, would
she? I'm sure it was here I had to come for it."
Stephenson felt all abroad. He did not think it likely the brooch would
be taken elsewhere, and began to wonder whether his master had taken it
in, and forgotten all about it. Opening a shallow drawer or two in the
counter, in one of which articles for repair were put, in the other the
repaired articles when finished, he searched both, but could not see the
brooch. This took him some little time, as most of the things were in
paper and he had to undo it.
Meanwhile the applicant amused himself by looking at the articles
displayed under the glass frame on the counter. He seemed to be rather
struck with some very pretty pencils.
"Are those pencils gold?" he inquired of Stephenson, when the latter
came forward with the news that the brooch was certainly not in the
shop.
"No, sir; they are silver gilt."
Lifting the glass lid, Stephenson took out the tray on which the pencils
and other things lay, and put it right under the young man's nose, in
the persuasive manner peculiar to shopmen. The pencils were chased
richly enough for gold, and had each a handsome stone at the end, which
might or might not be real.
"What is the price?"
"Twelve shillings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt's
stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such."
"I should like to take this one, I think," said the young man, choosing
out one with a pink topaz. "Wait a bit, though: I must see if I've
enough change to pay for it."
"Oh, sir, don't trouble about that; we will put it down to you."
"No, no, that won't do. One, two, four, six. Six shillings; all I
have in the world," he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his
porte-monnaie, "and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note,
perhaps?"
"Yes, sir, if you wish it."
The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his
porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman.
"The Squire's name is on it," he remarked.
Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it
was--"J. Todhetley," in the Squire's own handwriting.
"Give me gold, if you can."
Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight shillings in
silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over
that.
Wishing the civil shopman good morning, the young man left. He stood
outside the door for a minute, looking about him, and then walked
briskly up the street. While Stephenson locked up the ten-pound note in
the cash-box.
There it lay, snug and safe, for two or three weeks. One day Stephenson,
finding he had not enough change for a customer who came in to pay a
bill, ran over to the draper's opposite and got change for it there.
These were the particulars which Stephenson had furnished, and furnished
readily, upon inquiries being made of him.
* * * * *
Squire Todhetley drove like the wind, and we soon reached Worcester,
alighting as usual at the Star-and-Garter. The Squire's commotion had
been growing all the way; that goes without telling. He wanted to
take the bank first; Tom Chandler recommended that it should be the
silversmith's.
"The bank comes first in the way," snapped the Squire.
"I know that, sir; but we can soon come back to it when we have heard
what the others say."
Yet I think he would have gone into the bank head-foremost, as we passed
it, but chance had it that we met Corles, the lawyer, at the top of
Broad Street. Turning quickly into High Street, on his way from his
office, he came right upon us. The Squire pinned him by the button-hole.
"The very man I wanted to see," cried he. "And now you'll be good enough
to tell me, Edward Corles, what you meant by that rigmarole you wrote to
Paul yesterday about my son."
"I cannot tell what was meant, Squire, any more than you can; I only
wrote in accordance with my information," said Mr. Corles, shaking hands
with the rest of us. "You have done well to come over; and I will
accompany you now, if you like, to see Stephenson."
The Squire put his arm within the younger man's, and marched on down
High Street to the silversmith's, never so much as looking at the bank
door. Stephenson was in the shop alone: such a lot of us, it seemed,
turning in!
The Squire, hot and impulsive, attacked him as he had attacked Edward
Corles. What did Stephenson mean by making that infamous accusation
about his son?
It took Stephenson aback, as might be seen; his eyes opened and his hair
stood on end straighter than ever. Looking from one to the other of us,
he last looked at Mr. Corles, as if seeking an explanation.
"The best thing you can do, to begin with, Stephenson, is to relate
to Squire Todhetley and these gentlemen the particulars you gave
me yesterday morning," said Mr. Corles. "I mean when you took the
bank-note, a month ago."
Without more ado, Stephenson quietly followed the advice; he seemed of
as calm a temperament as the Squire was the contrary, and recited the
particulars just given. The Squire's will was good to interrupt at every
second word, but Mr. Corles begged him to listen to the end.
"Oh, that's all very well," cried he at last, "all true, I dare say;
what I want to know is, how you came to pitch upon that customer as
being my son."
"But he was your son, sir. He was young Mr. Todhetley."
"Nonsense!" retorted the Squire. "Was this he?" drawing Tod forward.
"No, sir; certainly not."
"Well, this is my only son; except a little who is not yet much more
than out of his petticoats. Come! what do you say now?"
Stephenson looked again at one and the other of us. His pale face took a
sort of thoughtful haze as if he had passed into a fog.
"It must have been young Mr. Todhetley," spoke he; "everything seemed to
uphold the fact."
"Now don't you turn obstinate and uphold what is _not_ the fact,"
reproved the Squire. "When I tell you this is my only son, except the
child, how dare you dispute my word?"
It should be stated that Stephenson had been with the silversmith since
the beginning of the year only, and had come from Birmingham. He knew
Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley by sight, from their coming sometimes to the
shop, but he had never yet seen Tod or me.
"I don't suppose you want Squire Todhetley's word confirmed, Stephenson,
but I can do so if necessary," said Mr. Corles. "This is his only
grown-up son."
"No, no, sir, of course I don't," said Stephenson. "This gentleman,"
looking at Tod, "does not bear any resemblance to the one who changed
the note."
"What was he like?" said Tom Chandler, speaking for the first time; and
he asked it because his thoughts were full.
"He was fair, sir," replied Stephenson.
"What height?"
"About middle height. A young, slender man."
"Well dressed? Spoke like a gentleman?"
"Oh, quite like a gentleman, and very well dressed indeed."
"Just as MacEveril was that morning, on the strength of getting to the
picnic," ran through Tom Chandler's thoughts. "Did he come off here
first, I wonder?"
"He seemed to know all about you, sir, just as though he lived at your
house," said Stephenson to the Squire; "and Mrs. Todhetley sent him for
her brooch that day. Perhaps you may know, sir, who it was she sent?"
"Sent! why, nobody," spluttered the Squire. "It must have been a planned
thing. The brooch is not broken."
"He said the little pink flower had got broken off, and that Mrs.
Todhetley did it with her shawl," persisted Stephenson, unable to stare
away his perplexity. And I think we were all feeling perplexed too.
"He knew what the brooch cost, and that it was bought for a wedding
present, and that Mrs. Todhetley kept the brooch for herself because the
wedding did not come off," went on Stephenson. "How could I suppose,
sir, it was anybody but your own son? Why once I called him 'Mr.
Todhetley;' I remember it quite well; and he did not tell me I was
mistaken. Rely upon it, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Squire
Todhetley, that it is some young gentleman who is intimate at your house
and familiar with all its ways."
"Hang him for a young rogue!" retorted the Squire.
"And your own name was on the note, sir, which he bade me notice, and
all! And--and I don't see how it was possible to _help_ falling into the
mistake that he came from you," concluded Stephenson, with a slightly
injured accent.
Upon which the Squire, having had time to take in the bearings of the
matter, veered round altogether to the same opinion, and said so, and
shook hands with Stephenson when we departed.
Tom Chandler let us go on, remaining behind for a minute or two. He
wanted to put quietly a few questions about the appearance of the young
man who had changed the note. He also examined the silver-gilt pencils,
finally buying one which was precisely similar, stone and all, to the
one which had been sold that other morning.
Stephenson answered the questions to the best of his ability and
recollection. And Tom Chandler found that while on some points the
description would have served very well for that of Richard MacEveril,
on other points it did not seem to fit in with it at all.