BALDWIN woke at the hour custom had made mechanical and lay for a while trying to recollect how he had got to bed. As a matter of fact he had stumbled indoors of his own accord during the evening, and had made his way upstairs without asking for supper; so that when Frank came round there had been no need for his services, and in the relief both experienced neither he nor Keturah had thought of examining the workshop door, which was consequently left unlocked.

With her mind eased of this anxiety Keturah had slept soundly and only Nancy knew with what force the wind had swept down from the moor. It had been so strong that she had been compelled to rise before midnight and close her window, after which she fell asleep for an hour or two. When she next woke the panes were covered with snow, and the storm was still raging. By the time Keturah went downstairs the gale had abated but snow was still falling heavily and lay several inches thick upon the roadway.

It was not until they were seated together at breakfast that Keturah ventured to deliver herself of Inman’s reminder. Baldwin was morose, but not unusually so, and he merely growled the reply that when he wanted a woman to nurse him he’d let her know, whereupon Keturah subsided, well content to have come off so lightly. Ten minutes later he returned to the shop, and within a quarter-hour staggered home again, his face the colour of ashes.

“Robbed!” he gasped as he sank into a chair and let his hands fall to his sides. He was the picture of hopeless despair, and his head sank upon his breast as though every muscle had lost its power to serve. “Robbed!” he groaned again. “T’ safe prised open and every penny ta’en! Every penny! Every penny!”

In the moment of his utter wretchedness he forgot to swear, and could only groan; but as Keturah screamed and put her hand to her side he raised his head and looked at her.

“Every penny, Keturah!” he groaned, holding out his trembling arms to his sister like a troubled child who seeks the refuge of its mother’s breast. “They’ve robbed me of every penny! Five hunderd golden sovereigns gone—clean gone!”

Roused by the shrill scream Nancy came downstairs. The sense of what seemed to Keturah an overwhelming disaster had wiped out all the antipathies of past weeks and dried up tears and reproaches alike, and she was kneeling on the rug with her arm on her brother’s shoulders, crooning into ears that were deaf to all she said, meaningless assurances that all would yet be well.

Baldwin’s face showed that he was insensible to all that was passing and conscious only of one great fact.

“Robbed, lass!” he repeated, gazing vacantly into Nancy’s eyes. “Every penny’s ta’en——!”

Nancy waited for nothing more; but hastened into the shop, and finding that the men assembled there knew nothing, despatched Frank for the policeman.

The “Packhorse” was uncomfortably full that evening but nobody complained of inconvenience or overcrowding, though there were those there whose faces were seldom seen in that company, and some who had walked through deep snowdrifts and past other houses of entertainment in order to be present. Albert was doing a roaring trade but found time to drop an observation from time to time as he moved about.

“In Hull, you say?” Swithin inquired. “And what time might he ha’ gone to Hull?”

“Our Jackie drave him down for t’ eight train,” the speaker replied, “and wor fain to see t’ last on him, for he wor as glum as a slug all t’ road, and never gave t’ lad a copper for his-sen, same as most of ’em does.”

“And they sent him a telegraph to come back, say ye?” pursued Swithin whose duties had kept him out of the village all day so that he had some leeway to make up.

“Before ten i’ t’ morning,” another volunteered. “Our Frank handed it in. ’E were to ’ave ’elped to get Baldwin to bed by Inman’s orders, if so be ’at ’e ’adn’t been able to ’elp ’is-self. ’Owsomever ’e’d getten to bed when Frank got there; an’ seemin’ly ’e ’adn’t locked t’ shop door; but that wor nowt out o’ t’ common, an’ nob’dy noticed nowt amiss till Baldwin went to t’ safe—”

“Aye, aye, we’ve heard that before,” Swithin broke in. “We know ’at t’ safe worn’t locked for all there wor five hunderd pound in it and at t’ drawer wor prized oppen—it’s Inman’s doings I’m wanting to get at.”

“’E wired back by eleven,” the other went on, “but he couldn’t get here afore five. They stopped t’ Scotchman for him, same as he’d been t’ squire his-self, and t’ inspector wor waitin’ down at t’ station wi’ a motor-car. Ah seed ’em pass my-self, an’ no notice ta’en o’ speed-limits seemin’ly.”

Swithin’s eyes rested on the speaker with such concentration that the man became uneasy and Ambrose noticed it.

“Tha’s no ’casion to fidget, lad,” he piped; “Swith’n noan suspicions thee o’ steylin’ t’ brass; but he’s a fearful cute hand at puttin’ two an’ two together, when he sets his-sen, and he’s seein’ summat ’at’s hid from ordinary een. It’s a gift wi’ some men. A far-seein’ man was his fayther afore him, as noan on ye’ll recollect; but Swith’n’s as like him as if he’d been spit out of his mouth.”

“What I see and what I say, Ambrus, is two different things,” returned Swithin who was obviously pleased by the old man’s compliment. “There’s a time to speak your thoughts and a time to bottle ’em; but what I’ve seen I’ve seen, let any man deny it ’at will.”

He looked round at the company defiantly; but meeting with nothing that could be regarded as a challenge: indeed with nothing but eager interest, he first lifted his pot to his lips and then continued, with his eyes on Ambrose.

“Two and two together I can put, Ambrus; but when it’s two and a nowt, where are you then? If Inman hadn’t ha’ been i’ Hull mebbe I’d ha’ had summat to say ’at ’ud ha’ made some folks’ hair stand on end; but seeing as he wor in Hull there’s an end on’t.”

With this enigmatical statement he returned to his ale, and Ambrose signalled to the company to keep silence.

“He’s in labour, as you may put it,” he whispered confidentially to his neighbour; “and mun hev his time.”

Whether or no this remark helped to speedy parturition may not be easily determined; but at any rate Swithin was at that moment delivered; and after looking round to make sure that he had the ears of all present said, in the formal voice of a constable who is giving evidence on oath—

“It was t’ards midnight, or mebbe a piece after, ’at I turned out o’ t’ shippen i’ t’ long close to straighten my back and get a breath o’ air. Crumple wor late wi’ her cawving, and I dursn’t leave her for more’n a minute or two at a time; but straighten my back I felt I must, and so stood at t’ door.

“It wor black as coal, an’ a gale o’ wind blowing fit to shift t’ shippen into t’ beck, but I reckoned nowt o’ that so long as t’ snaw held off; and wor just about to turn in again when a heap o’ stones came tumbling down off o’ t’ wall not five yards away.

“‘That’s nowt!’ ye’ll say; ‘a strong breeze’ll oft fetch a dry wall down’, and that I’ll take tul; but a strong breeze doesn’t say ‘Damn it!’—no, not t’ strongest breeze ’at ’ivver blew over Mawm!”

He paused, whilst his eyes slowly swept the company to see what effect this communication had produced, but when two or three voices broke in with questions he raised his hand in deprecation and continued—

“Not knowing who it mud be ’at was prowling round t’ shippen at that time o’ night I stepped inside for a fork; but I nayther saw nor heard naught no more though I searched round wi’ t’ lantern. A piece after, Crumple’s time come, and I’d summat else to do nor think o’ boggarts.”

Nobody spoke, though there was now ample opportunity, and when Albert had replenished his pot Swithin fixed his eyes on Ambrose and said—

“Now if any man among t’ lot of ye can put two and two together, ye’re welcome; but I call it two and a nowt.”

“There’s nob’dy i’ this neighbourhood, Swith’n,” returned the old man, “but what’s as well-known to ye as soil to t’ sexton—are ye tellin’ us ’at ye couldn’t reckernize t’ voice?”

“I thought I reckernized t’ voice, Ambrus, but I wor mista’en; and that’s why i’stead o’ putting two and two together I call it two and a nowt. More’n that I won’t say.”

“But whoever t’ chap was,” said Albert, “he were a long way wide o’ Baldwin’s shop if he were i’ t’ long close. A fellow running away wi’ brass in his pocket ’ud be on t’ road to nowhere down there; whereas if a tramp were coming from t’ Gordel end—from Girston, happen—he’d mebbe be tempted to cut across t’ fields to save a mile or so on his way to t’ main road. Or, as like as not, he was for finding a bed i’ t’ shippen, till he saw t’ glimmer o’ your lantern.”

This commonplace solution of the mystery, whilst it pleased none of the company whose thirst for sensation was even greater than that for liquor, offended Swithin, who took refuge in silence after he had remarked that there were evidently those present who could put two and two together to their own satisfaction though, thank God, every man had a right to his own thoughts.

“If you ask me,” Jack Pearce broke in with some heat, “I don’t believe there’s been any robbery. Where’s Inman got his five hunderd quid from? ‘Had it by him,’ they say; as if folks kept bags o’ gold i’ t’ long drawer wi’ their spare shirts! It’s ridic’lous! and naught but a put-up job, to my thinking!”

All eyes now fixed themselves upon the young man whose flushed face revealed the angry state of his feelings; but it was a cold and even hostile gaze, for thrills were uncommon experiences in Mawm, and to be robbed of one of this magnitude was an unfriendly act, on a par with that which they were gathered to discuss. Jack felt this and stood upon his defence.

“He’s as cute and slippy as the Old Lad himself, is Inman, and I’ll bet my last dollar it’s all a made up dodge to gain a bit o’ time for Baldwin. Who’s seen t’ colour o’ t’ brass, I’d like to know? He lives by his wits, does Inman, more’n by joinering.”

“Whisht, lad! Whisht!” said the landlord, who alone had any sympathy for the hot-tempered youth. “You may think what you like but you mustn’t speak it out loud, for t’law’s again’ it!”

“Tha’s getten thi knife into Inman,” said Frank’s father, “and we all know why. He’s no friend o’ any of us ’at I know on, but they aren’t all thieves ’at dogs bark at, and choose where he got t’ brass from, get it he did, for our Frank not only ’eard t’ chink on’t, but saw it wi’ his own eyes. Aye, and I’ll tell you more—he saw it after Inman had gone and so did t’others, for they pept through a crack i’ t’ boards and saw Baldwin bring it out o’ t’ safe and frame to count it, but he were ower far gone, and so put it back.”

“Then I’m glad I don’t work for Baldwin,” said Jack sullenly, and with a significance there was no mistaking.

“And so you may be,” continued the other. “But Frank’s tell’d t’ police all he knows, and they don’t suspicion any o’ t’ men—anyway they’ve found nowt so far to warrant owt o’ t’ sort.”

“Well, come now,” said the landlord, who was anxious to prevent the conversation from becoming acrimonious; “Jack meant naught wrong, so there’s no harm done. And as to any i’ t’ village having ta’en t’ brass I’d pledge my living again’ it. I make no charge again’ nob’dy, but there was a stranger having a snack in t’ ‘Royal’ at same time as Inman and t’ lawyer, and whether or no they dropped ought ’at they shouldn’t isn’t to be known; but as Swithin says, we’ve a right to wer own thoughts.”

Conversation at this point became general as each man advanced a theory based upon the information that had been given, or asked a question of his neighbour preparatory to forming one. Silence, however, fell upon the company again when during a lull Ambrose was heard to say—

“—and, if so be as they don’t lay their hands on t’ thief and get hold o’ t’ brass, it’s like to go hard wi’ Baldwin, for if all’s trew ’at’s tell’d, he wor at t’ last gasp, as you may put it, and could get no more credit. I’m flayed t’ ship’ll land on t’ ass-midden this time, Swith’n.”

“That’s a trew word, Ambrus,” the other replied, “and if so be as Inman lands alongside him I don’t know ’at there’ll be any pity wasted. Not but what he’s worked hard for Baldwin, for you mun give t’ devil his due; and for a man to lose t’ lump, and be beggared as you may say, all in a minute, is broth ’at none of us ’ud like to sup.”

“And do you mean to tell me,” Jack exclaimed with a return of temper, “’at Inman’ll have lent all this brass and not be covered for’t?” He snapped his fingers contemptuously, as he asked the question. “You can tell that tale to t’ infant-class! What was it Ambrose said, not above a month back, when Inman caught his breeches on that nail i’ Jane Wilki’son’s gateway and made her pay t’ price of a new pair, ommost; and her a widow? I ask you, what did Ambrose say? Wasn’t it, ’at he’d nails ’at ’ud scratch his grannie out of her grave? And d’you think a man like that’ll put down a penny and not pick up tuppence? He’s no such blamed fool!”

The sense of the company was with Jack this time, and even Swithin had nothing to say in reply. As for Ambrose, the quotation from his past pronouncement tickled his vanity, and he nodded his head approvingly as he remarked:—

“I did say it, lad, though it had slipped my mem’ry. There wor a time when I wor full o’ wise sayin’s o’ that sort, and took a pleasure i’ shapin’ ’em; but I’ve getten ower old now and it’s only odd ’uns that come back to me. A robbery now ’ud ha’ been a godsend when I wor i’ my gifted prime; but we’d nowt o’ that sort—nowt nobbut a toathri apples missin’ and t’ like o’ that, ’at wor just marlackin’, as you mud say. But it’s gettin’ late, neebours; and I’m a bit shakken wi’ what we’ve been going’ through. I’ll be shapin’ for home.”