“He’s a lonely man,” said Negget, shaking his head and glancing from the corner of his eye at the door of the larder.  In his wildest dreams he had not imagined so choice a position, and he resolved to give full play to an idea which suddenly occurred to him.

“I dare say,” said Mrs. Driver, carelessly, conscious that her friend was watching her.

“And the heart of a little child,” said Negget; “you wouldn’t believe how simple he is.”

Mrs. Clowes said that it did him credit, but, speaking for herself, she hadn’t noticed it.

“He was talking about you night before last,” said Negget, turning to his hostess; “not that that’s anything fresh.  He always is talking about you nowadays.”

The widow coughed confusedly and told him not to be foolish.

“Ask my wife,” said the farmer, impressively; “they were talking about you for hours.  He’s a very shy man is my wife’s uncle, but you should see his face change when your name’s mentioned.”

As a matter of fact, Mr. Bodfish’s face was at that very moment taking on a deeper shade of crimson.

“Everything you do seems to interest him,” continued the farmer, disregarding Mrs. Driver’s manifest distress; “he was asking Lizzie about your calling on Monday; how long you stayed, and where you sat; and after she’d told him, I’m blest if he didn’t go and sit in the same chair!”

This romantic setting to a perfectly casual action on the part of Mr. Bodfish affected the widow visibly, but its effect on the ex-constable nearly upset the bread-pan.

“But here,” continued Mr. Negget, with another glance at the larder, “he might go on like that for years.  He’s a wunnerful shy man—­big, and gentle, and shy.  He wanted Lizzie to ask you to tea yesterday.”

“Now, Mr. Negget,” said the blushing widow.  “Do be quiet.”

“Fact,” replied the farmer; “solemn fact, I assure you.  And he asked her whether you were fond of jewellery.”

“I met him twice in the road near here yesterday,” said Mrs. Clowes, suddenly.  “Perhaps he was waiting for you to come out.”

“I dare say,” replied the farmer.  “I shouldn’t wonder but what he’s hanging about somewhere near now, unable to tear himself away.”

Mr. Bodfish wrung his hands, and his thoughts reverted instinctively to instances in his memory in which charges of murder had been altered by the direction of a sensible judge to manslaughter.  He held his breath for the next words.

Mr. Negget drank a little more ale and looked at Mrs. Driver.

[Illustration:  Mrs. Driver fell Rack BEORE the emerging form of Mr. Bodfish]

“I wonder whether you’ve got a morsel of bread and cheese?” he said, slowly.  “I’ve come over that hungry—­”

The widow and Mr. Bodfish rose simultaneously.  It required not the brain of a trained detective to know that the cheese was in the larder.  The unconscious Mrs. Driver opened the door, and then with a wild scream fell back before the emerging form of Mr. Bodfish into the arms of Mrs. Clowes.  The glass of Mr. Negget smashed on the floor, and the farmer himself, with every appearance of astonishment, stared at the apparition open-mouthed.