Mr. Furze tried several experiments during the next two or three weeks. It was his custom to look after his shop when Tom went to his meals, and on those rare occasions when he had to go out during Tom’s absence, Orkid Jim acted as a substitute. Whenever Mr. Furze found a sovereign in the till he quietly marked it with his knife or a filet but it was invariably handed over to him in the evening. On a certain Wednesday afternoon, Tom being at his dinner, Mr. Furze was summoned to the Bell by a message from Mr. Eaton, and Jim was ordered to come immediately. He usually went round to the front door. He preferred to walk down the lane from the foundry, and when the back rooms were living rooms, passage through them was of course forbidden.

As the summons, however, was urgent, he came the shortest way, and, looking in through the window which let in some borrowed light from the back of the shop to the warehouse behind, he saw Mr. Furze, penknife in hand, at the till. Wondering what he could be doing, Jim watched him for a moment. As soon as Mr. Furze’s back was turned he went to the till, took out a sovereign which was in it, closely examined it, discovered a distinct though faint cross at the back of his Majesty George the Third’s head, pondered a moment, and then put the coin back again. He looked very abstruse, rubbed his chin, and finally smiled after his fashion. Tom’s shop coat and waistcoat were hung up just inside the counting-house. Jim went to them and turned the waistcoat pockets inside out. To put the sovereign in an empty pocket would be dangerous. Tom would discover it as soon as he returned, and would probably inform Mr. Furze at once. A similar test for the future would then be impossible. Jim thought of a better plan, and it was strange that so slow a brain was so quick to conceive it. Along one particular line, however, that brain, otherwise so dull, was even rapid in its movements. It was Mr. Furze’s practice to pay wages at half-past five on Saturday afternoon, and he paid them himself. He generally went to his tea at six on that day, Tom waiting till he returned. On the following Saturday at half-past six Jim came into the shop.

“I met Eaton’s man a minute ago as I wur goin’ ’ome. He wanted to see the guvnor particklar, he said.”

This was partly true, but the “particklar” was not true.

“I told him the guvnor warn’t in, but you was there. He said he was goin’ to the Bell, but he’d call again if he had time. You’d better go and see wot it is.”

Tom took off his black apron and his shop coat and waistcoat, put them up in the usual place, and went out, leaving Jim in charge. Jim instantly went to the till. There were several sovereigns in it, for it had been a busy day. He turned them over, and again recognised the indubitable cross. With a swift promptitude utterly beyond his ordinary self, he again went to Tom’s waistcoat—Tom always put gold in his waistcoat pocket—took out a sovereign of the thirty shillings there, put it in his own pocket, and replaced it by the marked sovereign. Just before the shop closed, the cash was taken to Mr. Furze. He tied it carefully in a bag, carried it home, turned it over, and the sovereign was absent. Meanwhile Orkid Jim had begun to reflect that the chain of evidence was not complete. He knew Tom’s habits perfectly, and one of them was to buy his Sunday’s dinner on Saturday night. He generally went to a small butcher near his own house. Jim followed him, having previously exchanged his own sovereign for twenty shillings in silver. As soon as Tom had left the butcher’s shop Jim walked in. He was well known.

“Mr. Butterfield, you ’aven’t got a sovereign, ’ave you, as you could give me for twenty shillings in silver?”

“Well, that’s a rum ’un, Mr. Jim: generally it’s t’other way: you want the silver for the gold. Besides, we don’t take many sovereigns here—we ain’t like people in the High Street.”

“Mr. Butterfield, it’s jist this: we’ve ’ad overwork at the guvnor’s, and I’m a-goin’ to put a sovereign by safe come next Whitsuntide, when I’m a-goin’ to enjoy myself. I don’t get much enjoyment, Mr. Butterfield, but I mean to ’ave it then.”

“All right, Mr. Jim. I’ve only two sovereigns, and there they are. There’s a bran-new one, and there’s the other.”

“I don’t like bran-new nothin’s, Mr. Butterfield. I ain’t a Radical, I ain’t. Why, I’ve seed in my time an election last a week, and beer a-runnin’ down the gutters. It was the only chance a poor man ’ad. Wot sort of a chance ’as he got now? There’s nothin’ to be ’ad now unless yer sweat for it: that’s Radicalism, that is, and if I ’ad my way I’d upset the b---y Act, and all the lot of ’em. No, thank yer, Mr. Butterfield, I’ll ’ave the old sovereign; where did he come from now, I wonder.”

“Come from? Why, from your shop. Mr. Catchpole has just paid it me. You needn’t go a-turnin’ of it over and a-smellin’ at it, Mr. Jim; it’s as good as you are.”

“Good! I worn’t a-thinking’ about that. I wor jist a-looking at the picter of his blessed Majesty King George the Third, and the way he wore his wig. Kewrus, ain’t it? Now, somebody’s been and scratched ’im jist on the neck. Do yer see that ere cross?”

“You seem awful suspicious, Mr. Jim. Give it me back again. I don’t want you to have it.”

“Lord! suspicious! Ere’s your twenty shillin’s, Mr. Butterfield. I wish I’d a ’undred sovereigns as good as this.” And Mr. Jim departed.

Mr. Furze lost no time in communicating his discovery to his wife.

“Furze,” she said, “you’re a fool: where’s the sovereign? You haven’t got it, but how are you to prove now that he has got it? We are just where we were before. You ought to have taxed him with it at once, and have had him searched.”

Mr. Furze was crestfallen, and made no reply. The next morning at church he was picturing to himself incessantly the dreadful moment when he would have to do something so totally unlike anything he had ever done before.

On the Sunday afternoon Jim appeared at the Terrace, and Phoebe, who was not very well, and was at home, announced that he wished to see Mr. Furze.

“What can the man want? Tell him I will come down.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Furze, “Jim had better come up here.”

Mr. Furze was surprised, but, as Phoebe was waiting, he said nothing, and Jim came up.

“Beg pardon for interruptin’ yer on Sunday arternoon, but I’ve ’eerd as yer ain’t satisfied with Mr. Catchpole, and I thought I’d jist tell yer as soon as I could as yesterday arternoon, while I was mindin’ the shop, and he was out, I ’ad to go to the till, and it jist so ’appened, as I was a-givin’ change, I was a-lookin’ at a George the Third sovereign there, and took particklar notice of it. There was a mark on it. That werry sovereign was changed by Mr. Catchpole at Butterfield’s that night, and ’ere it is. I ’ad to go in there, as I wanted a sovereign for a lot of silver, and he giv it to me.”

“Can Butterfield swear that Catchpole gave it him?” said Mrs. Furze, quite calmly.

“Of course he can, marm; that’s jist wot I asked him.”

“That will do, Jim; you can go,” said Mrs. Furze.

Jim looked at her, loitered, played with his cap, and seemed unwilling to leave.

“I’m comm’ up to-morrow mornin’, marm, just to ’ave one more look at that biler.” He then walked out.

“I suppose I must prosecute now,” said Mr. Furze.

“Prosecute! Nothing of the kind. What is your object? It is to get rid of him, and let Catharine see what he is. Suppose you prosecute and break down, where will you be, I should like to know? If you succeed, you won’t be a bit better off than you are now. Discharge him. Everybody will know why, and will say how kind and forgiving you are, and Catharine cannot say we have been harsh to him.”

Mr. Furze was uneasy. He had a vague feeling that everything was not quite right; but he said nothing, and mutely assented to his wife’s proposals.

“Then I am to give him notice to-morrow?”

“You cannot keep him after what has happened. You must give him a week’s wages and let him go.”

“Who is to take his place?”

“Why do you not try Jim? He is rough, it is true, but he knows the shop. He can write well enough for that work, and all you want is somebody to be there when you are out.”

Mr. Furze shuddered. That was not all he wanted, but he had hardly allowed himself, as we have already seen, to confess his weakness.

“It might be as well, perhaps,” added Mrs. Furze, “to have Tom up to-morrow and talk to him here.”

“That will be much better.”

It was now tea-time, and immediately afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Furze went to church.

Soon after nine on the following morning, and before Mr. Furze had left, Jim appeared with another request “to see the missus.”

“I’ll go downstairs,” she said. “He wants to see me about the boiler.”

There was nobody but Jim in the kitchen.

“Well, Jim?”

“Well, marm.”

“What have you got to say?”

“No, marm, it’s wot ’ave you got to say?”

“It is very shocking about Mr. Catchpole, is it not? But, then, we are not surprised, you know; we have partly suspected something for a long time, as I have told you.”

“’Ave you really? Well, then, it’s a good thing as he’s found out.”

“I am very sorry. He has been with us so long, and we thought him such a faithful servant.”

“You’re sorry, are you? Yes, of course you are. Wot are yer goin’ to do with him?”

“We shall not prosecute.”

“No, marm, you take my advice, don’t yer do that; it wouldn’t do nobody no good.”

“We shall discharge him at once.”

“Yes, that’s all right; but don’t you prosecute ’im on no account, mind that. Mis-sis Furze,” said Jim, deliberately, turning his head, and with his eyes full upon her in a way she did not like, “wot am I a-goin’ to get out of this?”

“Why, you will be repaid, I am sure, by Mr. Furze for all the time and trouble you have taken.”

“Now, marm, I ain’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ as needn’t be said, but I know that Tom’s been makin’ up to Miss Catharine, and yer know that as soon as yer found that out yer come and spoke to me. Mind that, marm; it was yer as come and spoke to me; it wasn’t me as spoke first, was it?” Jim was unusually excited. “And arter yer spoke to me, yer spoke to me agin—agin I say it—arter I told you as I seed Joe pay the money, and then I brought yer that ere sovereign.”

Mrs. Furze sat down. In one short minute she lived a lifetime, and the decision was taken which determined her destiny. She resolved that she would not tread one single step in one particular direction, nor even look that way. She did not resolve to tell a lie, or, in fact, to do anything which was not strictly defensible and virtuous. She simply refused to reflect on the possibility of perjury on Jim’s part. Refusing to reflect on it, she naturally had no proof of it; and, having no proof of it, she had no ground for believing that she was not perfectly innocent and upright—a very pretty process, much commoner than perhaps might be suspected. After the lapse of two or three hours there was in fact no test by which to distinguish the validity of this belief from that of her other beliefs, nor indeed, it may be said, from that of the beliefs in which many people live, and for the sake of which they die.

“It is true, Jim,” said Mrs. Furze, after a pause, “that we thought Tom had so far forgotten himself as to make proposals to Miss Catharine, but this was a mere coincidence. It is extremely fortunate that we have discovered just at this moment what he really is; most fortunate. I have not the least doubt that he is a very bad character; your evidence is most decisive, and, as we owe so much to you, we think of putting you in Tom’s place.”

Jim had advanced with wariness, and occupied such a position that he could claim Mrs. Furze as an accomplice, or save appearances, if it was more prudent to do so. The reward was brilliant, and he saw what course he ought to take.

“Thank yer, marm; it was very lucky; now I may speak freely I may say as I’ve ’ad my eyes on Mr. Catchpole ever so long. I told yer as much afore, and this ain’t the fust time as he’s robbed yer, but I couldn’t prove it, and it worn’t no good my sayin’ wot I worn’t sure of.”

This, then, is the way in which Destiny rewards those who refuse to listen to the Divine Voice. Destiny supplies them with reasons for discrediting it. Mrs. Furze was more than ever thankful to Jim; not so much because of these additional revelations, but because she was still further released from the obligation to turn her eyes. Had not Jim said it once, twice, and now thrice? Who could condemn her? She boldly faced herself, and asked herself what authority this other self possessed which, just for a moment, whispered something in her ear. What right had it thus to interrogate her? What right had it to hint at some horrid villainy? “None, none,” it timidly answered, and was silent. The business of this other self is suggestion only, and, if it be resisted, it is either dumb or will reply just as it is bidden.

“You can tell Mr. Catchpole his master wishes to see him here.”

“Thankee, marm; good mornin’.”

Tom came up to the Terrace much wondering, and was shown into the dining-room by Phoebe not a little suspicious. Mr. Furze sat back in the easy-chair with his elbows on the arms and his hands held up and partly interlaced. It was an attitude he generally assumed when he was grave or wished to appear so. He had placed himself with his back to the light. Mrs. Furze sat in the window. Mr. Furze began with much hesitation.

“Sit down, Mr. Catchpole. I am sorry to be obliged to impart to you a piece—a something—which is very distressing. For some time, I must say, I have not been quite satisfied with the—the affairs—business at the shop, and the case of Humphries’ account made me more anxious. I could not tell who the—delinquent—might be, and, under advice, under advice, I resorted to the usual means of detection, and the result is that a marked coin placed in the till on Saturday was changed by you on Saturday night.”

A tremendous blow steadies some men, at least for a time. Tom quietly replied—

“Well, Mr. Furze, what then?”

“What then?” said Mrs. Furze, with a little titter; “the evidence seems complete.”

“A marked coin,” continued Mr. Furze. “I may say at once that I do not propose to prosecute, although if I were to take proceedings and to produce the evidence of Jim and his brother with regard to Humphries, I should obtain a conviction. But I cannot bring myself to—to—the—forget your past services, and I wish to show no unchristian malice, even for such a crime as yours. You are discharged, and there are a week’s wages.”

“I am not sure,” said Mrs. Furze, “that we are not doing wrong in the eye of the law, and that we might not ourselves be prosecuted for conniving at a felony.”

Tom was silent for a moment, but it never entered into his head to ask for corroboration or any details.

“I will ask you both”—he spoke with deliberation and emphasis—“do you, both of you, believe I am a thief?”

“Really,” said Mrs. Furze, “what a question to put! Two men declare money was paid to you for which you never accounted, and a marked sovereign, to which you had no right, was in your possession last Saturday evening. You seem rather absurd, Mr. Catchpole.”

“Mrs. Furze, I repeat my question: do you believe I am a thief?”

“We are not going to prosecute you: let that be enough for you; I decline to say any more than it suits me to say: you have had the reasons for dismissal; ask yourself whether they are conclusive or not, and what the verdict of a jury would be.”

“Then I tell you, Mrs. Furze, and I tell you, Mr. Furze, before the all-knowing God, who is in this room at this moment, that I am utterly innocent, and that somebody has wickedly lied.”

“Mr. Catchpole,” replied Mrs. Furze, “the introduction of the sacred name in such a conjunction is, I may say, rather shocking, and even blasphemous. Here is your money: you had better go.”

Tom left the money and walked out of the room.

“Good-bye, Phoebe.”

“Are you going to leave, Tom?”

“Discharged!”

“I knew there was some villainy going on,” said Phoebe, greatly excited, as she took Tom’s hand and wrung it, “but you aren’t really going for good?”

“Yes;” and he was out in the street.

“H’m,” said Mr. Furze, “it’s very disagreeable. I don’t quite like it.”

“Don’t quite like it?—why, what would you have done? would you have had Catharine marry him? I have no patience with you, Furze!”

Mr. Furze subsided, but he did not move to go to his business, and Mrs. Furze went down into the kitchen. Mr. Eaton had called at the shop at that early hour wishing to see Mr. Furze or Tom. He was to return shortly, and Mr. Orkid Jim, not knowing exactly what to do with such a customer, and, moreover, being rather curious, had left a boy in charge and walked back to the Terrace.

“There’s Jim again at the door,” said Mrs. Furze to Phoebe; “let him in.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but never will I go to the door to let that man in again as long as I live.”

“Phoebe! do you know what you are saying? I direct you to let him in.”

“No, ma’am; you may direct, but I shan’t. Nothing shall make me go to the door to the biggest liar and scoundrel in this town, and if you don’t know it yourself, Mrs. Furze, you ought.”

“You do not expect me to stand this, Phoebe? You will have a month’s wages and go to-night.”

“This morning, ma’am, if you please.”

Before noon her box was packed, and she too had departed.