“Eh!” said the startled farmer, putting his finger to his lips.

“Never mind,” said the other, shaking his head.  “It’s too late now.”

“He doesn’t care a bit,” said Mrs. Negget, somewhat sadly.  “He used to keep buttons in that box with the lozenges until one night he gave me one by mistake.  Yes, you may laugh—­I’m glad you can laugh.”

Mr. Negget, feeling that his mirth was certainly ill-timed, shook for some time in a noble effort to control himself, and despairing at length, went into the back place to recover.  Sounds of blows indicative of Emma slapping him on the back did not add to Mrs. Negget’s serenity.

“The point is,” said the ex-constable, “could anybody have come into your room while you was asleep and taken it?”

“No,” said Mrs. Negget, decisively.  I’m a very poor sleeper, and I’d have woke at once, but if a flock of elephants was to come in the room they wouldn’t wake George.  He’d sleep through anything.”

“Except her feeling under my piller for her handkerchief,” corroborated Mr. Negget, returning to the sitting-room.

Mr. Bodfish waved them to silence, and again gave way to deep thought.  Three times he took up his pencil, and laying it down again, sat and drummed on the table with his fingers.  Then he arose, and with bent head walked slowly round and round the room until he stumbled over a stool.

“Nobody came to the house this morning, I suppose?” he said at length, resuming his seat.

“Only Mrs. Driver,” said his niece.

“What time did she come?” inquired Mr. Bodfish.

“Here! look here!” interposed Mr. Negget.  “I’ve known Mrs. Driver thirty year a’most.”

“What time did she come?” repeated the ex-constable, pitilessly.

His niece shook her head.  “It might have been eleven, and again it might have been earlier,” she replied.  “I was out when she came.”

“Out!” almost shouted the other.

Mrs. Negget nodded.

“She was sitting in here when I came back.”

Her uncle looked up and glanced at the door behind which a small staircase led to the room above.

“What was to prevent Mrs. Driver going up there while you were away?” he demanded.

“I shouldn’t like to think that of Mrs. Driver,” said his niece, shaking her head; “but then in these days one never knows what might happen.  Never.  I’ve given up thinking about it.  However, when I came back, Mrs. Driver was here, sitting in that very chair you are sitting in now.”

Mr. Bodfish pursed up his lips and made another note.  Then he took a spill from the fireplace, and lighting a candle, went slowly and carefully up the stairs.  He found nothing on them but two caked rims of mud, and being too busy to notice Mr. Negget’s frantic signalling, called his niece’s attention to them.

“What do you think of that?” he demanded, triumphantly.